


quantus tremor est futurus (quandus Judex est venturus)

by revanchxst (BadWolfGirl01)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic (Video Games)
Genre: (Looking At You Revan And Malak), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Codependency, DID I MENTION PTSD, Eventual Relationships, F/F, F/M, Female Revan - Freeform, Fix-It of Sorts, Grey Revan, Healthy Relationships, Human Disaster Revan, I'm honestly not sure how to tag this, Implied/Referenced Torture, Planet Dromund Kaas (Star Wars), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Revan is slowly forcing me to eat my words, Slow Burn, The Jedi Have The No Attachments Rule For A Reason, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Vitiate Can Eat A Bag Of Dicks, Vrook Is Not Nice, War, about every single piece of this fic, but everyone still feels the sting of them, like the contrary bastard she is, no Jedi Civil War, of both the physical and psychological kind, probably, seriously why isn't that a tag, some Spoopy themes, the Mandalorian Wars may be over, yes both at once no they aren't the same relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:21:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 118,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27852418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadWolfGirl01/pseuds/revanchxst
Summary: A lot of lives had been lost by the end of the war, but because of Revan and her Revanchists, the Republic still stands. And now Carth is here, holding an unconscious legend in his arms. “Me neither,” he says, shifts Revan to make her position a little more comfortable. She’s definitely lighter than she should be, but she’s still heavy, and he wouldn’t be carrying her like this if he wasn’t worried about aggravating the blaster wound in her side. “Do you have any idea what she was talking about?”“All that nonsense about the Sith Empire and someone named Vitiate? I have no clue,” Bastila says. “The last of the true Sith went extinct a millennium ago, though their teachings have lingered, in ancient artifacts and holocrons they left behind. Sometimes Jedi find those artifacts and stray from the Light, calling themselves Sith Lords, but what Revan seemed to be implying…” She shakes her head. “I don’t know, and it’s not my place to speculate. This is a matter best left to the Jedi Council.”[or: Revan and Malak return from the Unknown Regions... but not as conquerors at the head of an invading fleet, rather as messengers, heralds of darkness. the Republic and the Jedi must decide what to do.]
Relationships: Alek | Darth Malak & Revan, Alek | Darth Malak & The Jedi Exile, Alek | Darth Malak/Female Revan, Alek | Darth Malak/Female Revan/Bastila Shan, Atris/Female Jedi Exile, Female Revan/Bastila Shan, The Jedi Exile & Revan
Comments: 46
Kudos: 58





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys! this fic has the potential to be pretty long, although i only have an idea of part of the plot right now; we'll see what happens as i write more. it'll probably be slow updating, but i do intend to finish this, no matter how difficult it is. this is the first time i've written something long on my own in a couple years, so bear with me.
> 
> a note about this AU: some of this might be explained in the text, but basically - Revan and Malak went off to figure out why the Mandalorians turned against the galaxy so suddenly, partially following a call through the Force Revan felt. they discovered Vitiate and his Empire, but instead of immediately going after the Star Forge, Revan investigated more.... and she and Malak were captured by Vitiate. they lost the coordinates to the Star Forge, Vitiate tortured them to try and turn them as well as to figure out what the Republic knows, if anything. Revan's fleet waited for her but when she didn't come back, they returned home. Revan is very grey in this - she's struggling with her actions during the Mandalorian Wars, especially at Malachor, and everything she and Malak went through with Vitiate definitely hasn't helped that - but she's trying her best to stay on the Light path.
> 
> as of this point i have no plans to include the Exile in this, but that might change, idk. also an important note: i have _not_ read the kotor comics, and i don't want to have to to write this, so i'm making up my own versions of the past. i will be pulling some details from the comics that i read about in my research, but don't expect this to follow that canon.
> 
> anyway, enough from me! i hope you enjoy the fic, please remember to leave me a comment telling me what you think <3
> 
> title is from "city of the dead" by Eurielle, which fits this whole scenario SUPER well; translates roughly to "oh what fear man's bosom renders/when from heaven Judge descends"

Revan slips through the darkness, hiding behind the smooth trunk of a tree, watches for a moment as the guard near her says something to their partner, gestures, and then leaves on some sort of patrol or sweep; she makes a quick hand gesture, and after a moment Malak joins her, leaning heavily against the tree.

He’s pale from blood loss, the worse-injured of the two of them; Vitiate’s torturers had focused more on the physical with him, and though Revan had gotten a generous dose of that herself, she’d been the one enduring the majority of the mind games Vitiate seems to enjoy playing. The Sith Emperor (and the Sith have been extinct for over a thousand years, the only ones to take the title Sith Lord have been fallen Jedi, and Revan had learned about them but she doesn’t know how anyone could’ve mistaken them for true Sith when there’s people with this kind of cold, chilling  _ power _ out there) had been very clear that he didn’t intend to  _ kill _ either of his prisoners, just twist them, and Revan really isn’t certain how much of her he’d managed to turn.

She shivers, rubs at her eyes, but the shadows in her peripheral vision don’t move, and, satisfied with that, she throws herself out from behind the tree and at the remaining guard, killing him with a quick slash of one lightsaber before he has time to call for help. There’s a decent-sized starship nearby, larger than she’d wanted but it still looks quick, and she waves to Malak as she hurries for the ramp.

The door is locked, of course, and Revan grits her teeth as she works on slicing the lock, fingers dancing over the keys, and just as she’s about to get it open:

“Hey, you! What are you doing with that- you’re the escaped prisoners!”  _ Shit. _ The guard who’d left to go on patrol, or so she thought, back too soon. Revan’s head is swimming from exhaustion, pain, and everything else, and she barely has time to turn before there’s blasterfire. The door hisses open and Revan gets off easily enough, takes a blaster bolt to the side, and pain explodes along her side but she grits her teeth and clings to the Force for strength.

Malak, though.

He’s nearly through the door when a blaster bolt hits him at the base of his spine, and he cries out and collapses - still present in the Force, but he’s  _ not moving _ and Revan’s heart is in her throat, and she almost can’t breathe. No. No.

Another blaster bolt whizzes just past her head and Revan shakes herself, grabs Malak’s shoulders and drags him the rest of the way off the ramp, slams her hand onto the button to close the door and raise the ramp, and runs for the cockpit, the ship coming to life around her as she does. It’s sleek, grey and black and red, and it responds well to her input as she slides into the pilot’s chair and grips the controls, retracting the landing gear and firing the engines, taking off at a steep angle and climbing fast. The navicomputer isn’t programmed with any of the familiar hyperspace routes Revan’s used to, and she swears, manually enters in a set of coordinates on the edge of the Outer Rim that should be far enough the Empire won’t be able to detect her, but within reach of the limited fuel she has. And she knows there isn’t a planet there, and that’s really all she can hope for.

Sith fighters are on her tail now, and Revan twists the ship back and forth, takes an even steeper angle - she just has to break the atmosphere, and the hyperspace calculations haven’t been finished but this is a rough, desperate jump anyway and so she doesn’t care to wait.

She’s nearly out when the ship rocks and shudders and there’s a loud explosion as the sublight engines take a direct hit, the previously-smooth flight going jittery and the yoke fighting her hands, and then Revan can see the slowly growing Sith fleet around the planet, and she aims for a gap between two cruisers and punches the ship into hyperspace.

Revan manages to drag Malak’s unconscious body about halfway to the cockpit before her strength gives out; she’d started broadcasting a distress signal on all known Republic frequencies as soon as the stolen ship dropped out of hyperspace (into a thankfully clear area) and began to drift, low on fuel and the sublight engines completely dead. The ship is nearly empty of supplies; there’d been a single emergency medpack in the cockpit and that was basically it, and all Revan had been able to do with it was stop the worst of the bleeding from Malak and put kolto on the worst of his injuries.

(The ship is empty but she can still feel something cold and creeping watching her from the shadows, and every time the light shifts she spins, has to stare at the source until she’s certain there’s nothing there. The army she’d built with her bare hands wouldn’t even recognize her now, she thinks, barely on her feet, jumping at shadows.)

There’s a cut on her forehead that’s opened up again with all the exertion, and Revan ties some of the bandages in the medpack around her head to at least keep the blood out of her eyes, sits down and rests Malak’s head in her lap, hands resting on his shoulders. He’s her closest friend, since they were children it’s been the two of them against the galaxy, he  _ has _ to be okay.

She was the one who followed the call into the Unknown Regions, who led them to Vitiate. If Malak dies from his injuries - it’s her fault. She can’t let that happen.

Revan has no idea how long they drift for; she slips into something like meditation, tries to sync her breathing with Malak’s, focusing on the weak glow that’s his presence in the Force and clings to it with everything she has, holding him here with nothing but her own will and what little energy she has left. She hurts,  _ Force _ does she hurt, but she knows it’s nothing compared to what Malak would be feeling if he was awake right now.

She’s nearly passed out herself when something changes.

Someone’s docked with the ship.

She can hear voices, footsteps, and she snaps to awareness as two people round the corner, battle-ready, and they look friendly - a Republic soldier and a Jedi, she thinks - but there’s still that  _ cold _ in the Force and Revan doesn’t know. She’d thought she’d seen Republic forces before, but it was all just Vitiate, and she  _ knows _ Vitiate can still reach her. And she can’t let anyone hurt Malak again.

So Revan bolts to her feet, both sabers flaring to life with a snap-hiss, one violet, one bright silver; the sudden motion sends the world spinning around her and she staggers into the wall, nearly falls, grits her teeth and grabs onto the Force for strength even though it burns, and points one saber at them. “Don’t move,” she says wildly, eyes flickering over the Jedi before focusing on the soldier. “I won’t let you hurt him.”

“Easy,” the soldier says, slowly bending down and setting his blaster on the floor, kicking it away from him with his foot as he straightens back up. “We got your distress signal, we came as quickly as we could. I’m Carth Onasi, I served against the Mandalorians. This is Padawan Bastila Shan.”

The Jedi - Bastila, if this is all to be believed - inclines her head, and Revan hesitates, almost ready to believe them; they  _ seem _ real, Carth’s presence is genuine and concerned in the Force, and she’s so  _ exhausted, _ she wants them to be real, and-

Something flickers in the corner of her vision and she glances back at it, fast, senses going on alert again - it could be nothing, a trick of the light, or it could be him. Vitiate.

“I won’t fall for this again,” she snaps, looking back at the two people in front of her, shaking her head (and that’s a mistake, the world spins again and she  _ hurts, _ she needs to sit down). “I won’t - you hear me, Vitiate? You can’t trick me again.” She lifts her sabers from where they were starting to drop, pushes off the wall and plants herself firmly over Malak’s body.

Something pained crosses the man’s face, and he says, “A little help, Bastila?” with a quick glance at his Jedi friend. Revan can’t bring herself to use their names - she won’t legitimize them, if they  _ are  _ hallucinations. She can’t give Vitiate the satisfaction.

The Jedi sighs, but says, calmly, “You’re Revan, aren’t you? The one who led the fight against the Mandalorians, Supreme Commander of the Republic Army. I recognize you from the holos. Here,” and she holds out one hand - Revan flinches back, but Bastila doesn’t use the Force, just stands there. “This is no trick, you can feel it.”

Revan hesitates, transfers both sabers to one hand and slowly reaches out to brush her fingers over Bastila’s hand - real, solid, warm, unequivocally  _ here. _ “You’re real,” Revan breathes, lets her sabers fall to the floor and shut off on their own, the tension keeping her upright draining from her body, and she staggers, catches herself on the wall, ends up on her knees. Her body feels leaden and she leans her head into the wall as the Force slips from between her fingers like sand, all the pain and exhaustion slamming back into her life a wave. “Shit,” she murmurs, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean- It’s been a long few… how long has it been?”

She closes her eyes for a moment, trying to calm the headache, and when she opens them again the soldier, Carth, is crouched down next to her, very clearly worried. “It’s been almost a month,” he says, and she thinks he’s repeating it - she must’ve missed his answer. “What happened to you out there?”

“I’m fine,” Revan tries, shakily. “You have to- help Malak, this is my fault, I can’t let him die.” She tries to push herself away from the wall to go back to sitting at her best friend’s head, but Carth stops her with a gentle hand on her shoulder - and it’s beyond frustrating that she doesn’t have the strength to push past him, but she obediently stops trying.

“We have kolto tanks on our ship,” Carth reassures her, leaving his hand in place, “and Bastila’s commed some of our crew to come get him. He’s going to be fine, Revan.”

Revan nods, closing her eyes again, slumping more against the wall. She’s been so  _ worried _ \- he’d barely made it to the shipyard with her when they escaped, she’d had to help him along a couple times, and he’d even tried to, once, tell her she should leave him behind, saying that  _ someone _ had to make it back to warn the Republic and the Jedi. She’d refused, told him to shut up and never bring that up again, and he’d left it alone, but the thought still leaves her uneasy, the fact that Malak thought she’d even  _ consider  _ agreeing.

“Revan,” Carth says, and she forces her eyes open. She’s lost more time, it seems - there’s more people in the corridor now, picking Malak up off the ground and putting him on a stretcher. Her friend is so pale and still, it looks  _ wrong. _ “I need to know what happened.”

“The Sith Empire, they’re back,” Revan says, eyes following Malak as they take him away, until she can’t see him anymore. Bastila comes over to kneel down next to Carth, holding out her hands - she’s got Revan’s lightsabers. Revan takes them, but her hands are shaking so hard Bastila has to help her return them to her belt where they belong. “We were called to the Unknown Regions while trying to find out why the Mandalorians attacked… it was Vitiate, he called himself the Sith Emperor. He captured Malak and I, tortured us - tried to make us Sith. I had to get us out, I couldn’t take anymore, it was- He made too much sense. I don’t know. I’m sorry, everything’s kind of a blur.” She shakes her head a little, though that just makes the pounding in her temples worse. “My men - did they survive? The Republic fleet?”

“They did,” Carth says. “There was some arguing, but when you and Malak didn’t return to lead them, they chose to return to the Republic and shore up our defenses in case the Mandalorians regrouped.”

Revan lets out a sigh of relief. “Good. I was worried - we made a mistake, we never should’ve come out here.”

“Carth,” Bastila says quietly, “we need to get her treated, she’s nearly as badly injured as Malak is.”

Carth frowns, and Revan manages a wry smile, says, “I’m just tired, I can’t remember the last time I slept and I’ve burned myself out using the Force.”

“I’m no expert, but you’ve clearly been shot, and I can sense other injuries through the Force,” the younger Jedi says archly, and Revan sighs and shrugs one shoulder.

“It hurts,” she admits, more strained than she means, “and I don’t think I can stand anymore, but- I just want Malak to be okay.”

“Let’s get you out of here,” Carth says, and before she really realizes what’s going on he’s got his arms around her and is gently lifting her up off the floor. “Up you go.”

Revan should protest, she thinks, should at least be wary, or tense, but she just lets her head fall against Carth’s shoulder, closing her eyes again. “Thank you,” she whispers, and, finally feeling  _ safe _ for the first time in days, weeks maybe, she lets go of the last of the desperate tension keeping her together.

~

Carth looks down at the Jedi in his arms (darker-skinned, black hair falling out of fishtail braids, green eyes gone closed), trying to swallow back his concern - he’d recognized Malak as soon as he’d seen the man, they’d fought on the same field before, but he hadn’t been able to place the vaguely-familiar woman with him until Bastila had said her name. Of course she would be Revan - who else would be defending Malak so ardently, who else had gone into the Unknown Regions, even the purple and white lightsabers and the outfit should’ve been a clue. But he’s only ever seen her in holos, and those don’t usually show their leader half-dead and terrified. Tastefully battleworn, yes, and sometimes haggard with exhaustion after a long fight, but nothing like this. The look in her eyes when she’d first seen them had been nearly haunted, torn between relief and horror.

Carth never wants to see anyone like that again.

“I’ve never been this close to anyone this powerful,” Bastila murmurs as they walk, and Carth hides a smile; the padawan the Jedi Council had sent with him and his men is young, but she’s pretty powerful herself if the stories are to be believed. Still, Revan is something of a legend throughout the Republic now - first for being  _ the _ Jedi who responded when the Republic called for help, then for all her victories in the months-turned-years that followed, and then for the armorcam footage a ground trooper had leaked that showed her incredible one-on-one fight with Mandalore the Ultimate. 

A lot of lives had been lost by the end of the war, but because of Revan and her Revanchists, the Republic still stands. And now Carth is here, holding an unconscious legend in his arms. “Me neither,” he says, shifts Revan to make her position a little more comfortable. She’s definitely lighter than she should be, but she’s still  _ heavy, _ and he wouldn’t be carrying her like this if he wasn’t worried about aggravating the blaster wound in her side. “Do you have any idea what she was talking about?”

“All that nonsense about the Sith Empire and someone named Vitiate? I have no clue,” Bastila says. “The last of the true Sith went extinct a millennium ago, though their teachings have lingered, in ancient artifacts and holocrons they left behind. Sometimes Jedi find those artifacts and stray from the Light, calling themselves Sith Lords, but what Revan seemed to be implying…” She shakes her head. “I don’t know, and it’s not my place to speculate. This is a matter best left to the Jedi Council.”

Bastila has a habit of saying things like that, which irritates Carth a little - he knows who he’d trust if it came down to it, between the Jedi Council and Revan herself. After all, one of them fought against the Mandalorians and the other was content to sit back and watch planets be massacred. (And Carth knows that’s not really a fair judgement to make on the Council; he’s sure they had their reasons for waiting, and they  _ had _ supported the Republic after Cathar and have been helping the affected people and worlds rebuild. But they weren’t  _ there, _ not the way Revan and Malak and the Revanchists were.)

“If there really is an empire out there, I think the Republic needs to know,” Carth says, mildly, as they arrive in their ship’s small medbay and he carefully lowers Revan to one of the two beds. Their medic has already gotten Malak into a kolto tank, and he’s expecting Revan will soon follow, now that he looks more closely at her.

Bastila sighs. “You may be right, Carth,” she relents, and Carth feels a little bad for the girl - this can’t be easy for her. “But I feel the Council would know if an empire of  _ Sith _ was in the Unknown Regions, don’t you? They’re the best of us, after all.”

“Some would say Revan and Malak are the best of you,” he points out, and Bastila makes a frustrated huff, making him smile. “Relax, I’m teasing. I understand what you’re saying.” Although he means what he said.

Their medic, a Nautolan named Sage, dark purple skinned with golden spots, starts peeling off Revan’s torn, dirty clothes, and to Carth’s eternal amusement (and, slightly, surprise) Bastila blushes bright red and says, “Perhaps we should let them work?”

“Embarrassed, are you?” Carth asks, trying to keep his amusement out of his voice but failing somewhat.

Bastila turns even redder at that, snaps, “Of course not! I’m just suggesting perhaps we do our best to preserve Revan’s dignity and give our medic space to work.”

Sage shrugs. “I’m used to working on a battlefield,” they say, “having two people around doesn’t matter. And I can’t blame you for being embarrassed, she  _ is _ good-looking.”

Bastila huffs, turning on her heel in a very unsubtle attempt to hide her face, Carth thinks. She’s already halfway out the door, showing no signs of slowing, when she tosses back over her shoulder, “It’s highly inappropriate to be discussing this when Revan isn’t even  _ awake. _ Carth, are you going to come with me to report in?”

Carth wipes the grin off his face best as he can, follows Bastila out of the medbay and towards the main room and its holotable. The Jedi Council, Supreme Chancellor, and at least one fleet Admiral are waiting to hear back from them, and he won’t be the one to keep them waiting, especially not with the news he and Bastila have.  _ Revan has returned. _ It seems like half the galaxy has been waiting for the hero of the Republic to come back - part of Carth wonders what they’ll do now that she has. With the kind of news no one had wanted to hear.

An empire, in the Unknown Regions. 

Carth doesn’t know if people will believe her. Nobody wants to have to prepare for  _ another _ war, not after finally defeating the Mandalorians, not after the massacres and the brutalized planets and the millions dead and  _ Malachor. _ People want to rebuild, to live in peace without having to worry about losing their homes or worse.

But Carth thinks about the look in Revan’s eyes when she’d first seen them, her desperation to protect Malak, the way she’d searched the shadows constantly.

Carth knows she’s telling the truth.

And he can’t help but be afraid for what that means for the galaxy.

~

Revan wakes up to the hum of starship engines, the faint smell of kolto (natural and vaguely oceanic-smelling, and  _ distinctive), _ and the soft hiss of recycled air blowing through the vents. She’s on a ship, then - for a moment, she doesn’t remember how she got here. The last thing she remembers is-

She bolts upright, the thin hospital blanket sliding down to pool in her lap at the motion, reaches for her lightsabers, but they’re not at her hips - she’s been dressed in sweats and a thin shirt, and she can feel bandages against her skin, and her hair is loose against her shoulders. Revan looks around the room, taking a deep, shaky breath (where is  _ Malak, _ is he okay, are they safe, did they make it), sees her sabers resting on top of her tattered clothes, folded on the built-in table in the wall by her bunk. The sight of her weapons reassures her and Revan takes one saber in her hand, rubs her fingers over the designs set into the hilt and tries to force her heart to slow as she looks around more carefully.

There’s a pair of kolto tanks resting against the wall, and while one is currently empty, Malak is floating in the other one; Revan stands, carefully (she feels a lot steadier than she’d expected to, but her legs are still weak and shaky and pain twinges across her side when she moves), crosses the room to press her empty hand against the transparisteel. Malak looks so  _ wrong, _ floating nearly lifeless in the clear liquid, oxygen mask covering half his face, eyes closed. She closes her own eyes and leans her forehead against the tank, reaches out into the Force to feel his presence - alive, stronger than it’d been on the ship, but still too weak, too faint. (And that’s her fault - if she hadn’t suggested they follow the trail into the Unknown Regions, if she hadn’t listened to the whisper in her mind saying  _ come, young Jedi, meet your fate, _ then Malak wouldn’t have been hurt. They could’ve simply returned home to the Republic as heroes, as saviours… and yet then the Republic would still be unaware of the threat lurking just beyond its borders.)

“You shouldn’t be up and about so soon,” a voice says, and Revan startles - her nerves are still frayed nearly to the breaking point from her time with Vitiate, and she’d been paying too much attention to Malak’s Force-signature to notice anyone approaching. Out of instinct she whirls, ignites the saber in her left hand, slipping into a defensive stance and wincing as that tugs at her injuries - but it’s just a Nautolan in a combat medic’s uniform standing in the door. “Turn that off and sit down, if you please, I need to make sure you haven’t made anything worse.”

Revan blinks, but she hesitantly deactivates her lightsaber, returning to sit down on the edge of her bunk, though she doesn’t put her saber away. “You’re a doctor?” she asks, hesitantly. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember how I got here.”

The medic nods. “My name is Sage,” they say, and pull up the hem of Revan’s shirt to look at the blaster wound on her side. “Commander Onasi brought you in here after you passed out and you’ve been in kolto since. You were in the tank for ten hours; sedative was supposed to keep you out for another two, but I’ve never had to adjust measurements for your kind of Jedi.”

Revan nods, processing the words - they’ve been in hyperspace for half a day, then, which means they’re far enough away from the unnamed planet Vitiate shouldn’t be able to touch her. (A part of her still can’t quite relax, expecting everything to tear apart, expecting to wake up again in her cell in Vitiate’s cold, cold fortress.) “And Malak?” she asks, as Sage adjusts her bandages.

“He’ll need to stay in kolto for several more hours, and I’m going to  _ attempt _ to keep him sedated until we reach Coruscant,” the doctor says. “Whether or not his body will let me is a different story. You Jedi, always making my job so difficult.” They seem more resigned than anything else, and Revan nods again, tries to find space to breathe. “Alright, you look good - you’re free to move around, as long as you’re  _ careful, _ and if you feel any pain or discomfort you need to rest, you hear me?”

“Yes, doctor,” Revan says, a little wry. She’s reckless sometimes, certainly, but after her first couple of experiences with it she’s done her best to never make her combat medics angry. “Do you have anything I can wear besides this?” She picks at the shirt in demonstration.

Sage sighs, but they open a nearby storage locker and pull out a neatly folded set of Jedi robes. “Bastila - Padawan Shan - left these for you, she said the two of you are close enough in size they should fit. I’m afraid your old clothes aren’t fit for more than burning.”

Unfortunate, but not surprising, really. Revan nods and takes the robes, thanking the doctor and shaking them out, holding them up against her and eyeing them. They’ll fit, might be a bit tight in the shoulders, but better than nothing until they reach Coruscant.

Sage excuses themself after a quick check on the computer screen hooked up to Malak’s tank, and Revan changes clothes as quickly as she can manage without pulling on anything - she wears the tunic and tabard, leaves the undershirt, pulls on the pants and socks, and then slides her feet into her own boots, dirty though they may be. They’ll clean up fine, and they’re more comfortable anyway, nearly molded to her feet. She grabs her own belt and her bits of armor from the pile of her clothes as well, even though the dark color doesn’t exactly match the robes, clips her sabers to her belt, and stands. There’s a small sink and a mirror tucked against the wall in one corner, and someone - Bastila, probably - has thoughtfully left out a hairbrush and some bands. Revan brushes out the tangles from her hair and braids it back neatly, looks herself over in the mirror as she does.

She looks  _ tired. _ Pale, dark circles under her eyes like bruises, an  _ actual _ bruise on one cheek and a healing line over her eye. Bandages peek out from the collar of her tunic and one sleeve, and it’s impossible to completely hide how drained she still feels, and how… jumpy, for lack of a better word. Still, she’s alive, and healthy enough to move around, which the same can’t be said for Malak (she looks over at his kotlo tank again, wishes she could touch him, just to reassure herself he’s still warm and breathing, even though she can sense his presence just fine).

She’s lucky.

Revan sighs, pushes her shoulders back, grits her teeth at the momentary twinge of pain that creates, and strides from the medbay, hoping to look more confident than she feels. She’s been a General too long to let uncertainty show.

The ship is small - a light cruiser, from the looks of it - and only lightly staffed, but she passes a few soldiers and other crew members as she walks through the corridors. They salute as she passes and she nods back, though she has to smile when she notices one of them whispering excitedly to a nearby soldier. They all know who she is, of course, anyone in the Republic army does, but it’s unlikely any of them have even served on the same command ship as she’s been on, much less been this close to her.

Revan pulls the excited woman aside, asks, “Do you know where Carth Onasi and Bastila Shan are?” She still has to thank them for getting her and Malak off that Sith ship alive, and they’re more than likely to be the ones who know what’s going on.

“Commander Onasi is on the bridge,” the woman says, “and I think Padawan Shan is with him, but I don’t know.”

Revan nods. “Thank you. That’ll be all, soldier,” and she smiles and salutes the woman with a sharp efficiency she’d picked up from those directly under her command, after much badgering. The young woman salutes back, going red in the face, and Revan turns and makes for the bridge, more amused than she dares to let on.

She supposes she’s probably a hero to most of these people, although it’s hard to feel like one when she still feels like she can’t quite trust her surroundings, and her body feels rather like she’s been used as an obstacle in a swoop race. (She hadn’t felt like much of a hero out on the battlefield either, at least not at first, watching so many she couldn’t protect fall. Later on, well- Revan has learned to forget about the losses, to focus on victory at the cost of all else. It’s not something she’s  _ proud _ of, but it’s served her well against the Mandalorians, and it’s a mentality she’ll need, she thinks, against Vitiate and his Sith Empire.)

Carth and Bastila are in fact on the bridge; the younger Jedi is standing with perfect posture near the edge of the holotable (and certainly she doesn’t maintain that all the time, Revan’s sore just watching her), the soldier scrolling through something on a datapad. He doesn’t notice her entry, but Bastila must sense her, because she looks up, then kicks Carth’s ankle with a booted toe.

“What- oh,” he says, looking up with a grimace. “Supreme Commander,” and he salutes sharply.

“Please,” Revan says dryly, “just call me Revan.”

Carth smiles and Revan does her best to match that, crossing the bridge to lean against the holotable near Bastila, giving her protesting muscles some relief. “Revan, then. It’s good to see you up and about.”

“Indeed it is,” Bastila adds, smiling. “We’ve been concerned, your injuries were much worse than you let on. How did you manage to get so far on your own?”

Revan remembers the ferocious  _ determination, _ grabbing onto the Force with a durasteel grip, telling herself she  _ would not fail, _ she would get herself and Malak away, she  _ would. _ “The same way I won the Mandalorian Wars,” she answers. “I grit my teeth and I refused to fail.”

That’s clearly not the answer Bastila was expecting, from the surprise and confusion in the Force, but the young Jedi nods, though she’s frowning. “I think you were delirious by the time we found you,” she says, and it’s Revan’s turn to frown. She’d been half-dead from exhaustion alone, but delirious? “You kept going on about an empire of Sith, someone named Vitiate - frankly, I don’t understand a word of it.”

Revan shivers, the bridge suddenly feeling colder and darker, and she remembers shadows moving, laughter and whispers in the dark, in her head, a voice she couldn’t block out no matter how many shields she raised. “No,” she says softly, staring out the viewscreen at the far end of the bridge, at the swirling blue and white of hyperspace. “Not delirious. They’re out there, hiding in the dark, waiting for us.  _ He _ is.” She’d only seen his face, his true face, once, but it’s seared into her memory, the skin bleach-bone white and covered in creeping veins of sickly grey corruption, eyes red as coals, a dark, deep voice, hood and robes concealing the rest of his body. She doesn’t even know if he has a lightsaber - he doesn’t need one. His sheer  _ power _ in the Force means no one could even get close to him for a lightsaber to be usable.

She knows. She’d tried.

“Revan?” Carth prompts, sounding concerned, and she blinks, shakes herself, tries for a smile at both him and Bastila although she’s sure she looks strained.

“I’m sorry,” she says, forces herself to focus on the  _ now, _ not the past. She doesn’t have time for the distraction - and really, she doesn’t want to try and explain everything to either of the two in front of her. “As soon as we get back to Coruscant, I have to see the Jedi Council. They didn’t listen to me before, but I swear, they’ll  _ have _ to listen to me now or I’ll-” Revan stops herself, shakes her head. The Jedi Council is so slow to act, is nearly-complacent, but they  _ did _ eventually come to support her against the Mandalorians - they won’t just ignore a literal  _ Sith Empire, _ will they?

Revan doesn’t know. But even if the Jedi Council won’t follow her,  _ her _ Jedi will, and the Republic will listen. 

She led the Republic to victory last time, she can do it again. Alone, if she must. (Never alone; she’ll always have Malak at her side. Her best friend, her brother, her partner in whatever cause she picks up. They used to think they’d always be invincible, as long as they had each other’s backs, but now Revan isn’t so certain anymore.)

“The Jedi Council never ignored you,” Bastila says, almost sharply, and Revan looks over at the younger padawan, thinks she’s the kind of idealistic Revan used to be, before the war. She has a hard lesson to learn in her future. “In their wisdom they saw the dangers of rushing ahead into battle when we didn’t know the full situation. They  _ knew _ the Mandalorians had to be stopped, but at what cost?”

Revan takes a breath, can’t stop her eyes from flashing, hands tightening a little. “In their  _ wisdom,” _ she says, barely able to hold back her frustration, “they would’ve let millions more innocent people  _ die. _ How can you say they were right? I couldn’t sit back and watch the Mandalorians slaughter  _ entire races, _ and neither could those who followed me. In fact, I’d say no true Jedi could - compassion is at the heart of everything we do, or it’s supposed to be.”

“She’s right, Bastila,” Carth says, and Revan blinks - she hadn’t expected the soldier to take a side, had thought if he’d intervened at all he’d try to make peace. After all, she’s sure he hardly needs the two functional Jedi at each other’s throats. “Maybe more people would be alive if we hadn’t gone to war, but every single one of them would be speaking Mando’a.”

“And that somehow excuses Malachor V?”

Revan flinches, the name of the planet a slap to the face.

Malachor had been her lowest point; she’d been so close to the Dark Side she could taste it, as she’d given the order to destroy so much of both armies for her victory. And she’d  _ seen _ it as one too, that’s the sickening thing; she’d heard all the silent screams within the Force and she’d felt all their pain and somehow she’d still been  _ proud. _

She knows she’s been teetering on the edge ever since.

(If Vitiate’s capture of them hadn’t resulted in their loss of the coordinates she and Malak had scoured the galaxy for, if she hadn’t risked too much to get too close… well. There’s no telling what would’ve happened, what still could.)

“That was uncalled for,” Revan says softly, and when she finally meets Bastila’s gaze the younger Jedi looks regretful. “I never wanted to destroy so much - do you think I didn’t suffer for it? I have to carry all those choices I made during the Wars, and the knowledge that if I had the chance, I’d make them all again. But that doesn’t mean they don’t hurt me.” Revan takes a deep breath, swallowing down the anger, the reminder of so much pain, sees Carth watching her with sorrow in his eyes.

Bastila’s voice is equally quiet when she answers. “I’m sorry, Revan. I am… not the best at self-control, sometimes. I’m afraid I’m less of a great Jedi than you might expect. I ask that you have patience with me.” And the girl really is clearly sorry, echoing out into the Force, and so Revan sighs, paints a smile onto her face that she doesn’t feel.

“It’s alright, Bastila. Standing around arguing the ethics of the Mandalorian Wars isn’t going to help anyone. We have bigger problems to worry about right now anyway.” Revan takes another deep breath, relieved to see that both Bastila and Carth focus on her.

“Like what?” the soldier asks, seriously, and she’s relieved to see he’s listening to her, intently.

“I meant what I said,” Revan says, calmly, locks her hands together behind her back. She needs  _ these two _ to believe her, at least. “There’s a Sith Empire in the Unknown Regions, raising a fleet - they’re not new, they’ve been there for a long time, and somehow the Jedi have never sensed them. No one who discovered their existence survived to tell the Republic.” She pauses again, looks between Bastila and Carth, deadly serious.

“And they’re led by the most powerful Dark Side Force-user I’ve ever heard of or seen, a man - if he can still be called a man - named Vitiate. And he wants to destroy the Republic.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how the fuck do militaries work
> 
> in other news, this is a flashback chapter, essentially - it covers time between Malachor V and Revan and Malak's capture (which i will not be going into detail about at this time, at least). next chapter we return to the present.
> 
> the "Qatya" mentioned is my Exile, Qatya Petheir, whose name may come up at points.
> 
> don't expect this kind of update speed in the future, i'm just trying to get a few chapters up while i have the time, and also i'm procrastinating by writing. anyway, i hope you enjoy! <3 don't forget to let me know what you think

“Can you feel it?” Revan asks, hushed, leaning up against the transparisteel of the bridge’s viewscreen, staring out at the stars beyond. They’re no longer in orbit around the shattered wreckage of Malachor V, but she imagines she can still see the broken ships imprinted on her eyes. “In the Force. Someone’s calling to us.”

Malak is sitting across from her, although he’s got a thin, fur-lined jacket wrapped around him to stave off the chill from space and he’s dressed down to just a plain Jedi tunic and trousers and boots. He shakes his head, picking at the lining of his jacket where it escapes from the end of the sleeves. “I still can’t hear much other than-” He pauses, shakes his head. “You know.”

Yes, Revan knows.

She’s still in her armor, or the pieces of it she wears: half a breastplate mostly hidden under thick leather wrapped around her stomach, chest, and shoulders, and bracers and gauntlets on her arms. She hasn’t taken off any layers, even including the tabard wrapped around one shoulder and draping down in front and back, but she can still feel the cold seeping in through the viewscreen. If she stopped leaning against it, it would help, but she can’t quite muster up the energy.

The screams of everyone who died when Qatya gave the order to activate the Mass Shadow Generator are still echoing in Revan’s own mind, a ceaseless symphony of agony, terror, and resigned grief.

(Arren Kae is dead. Revan felt her old Master’s Force-signature snuff out like the last embers of a once-roaring bonfire, their tattered old Force bond snapping in two like a matchstick struck too hard against a box. The emptiness in that space where Kae should be burns worse than Revan’s battered body.)

“Something in the Unknown Regions made the Mandalorians turn on the Republic,” Revan says, watches her breath fogging up one small part of the viewscreen, over and over again. “And I think whatever it is… it’s calling to me now.”

“Have you slept since you killed Mandalore?” Malak asks, studying her shrewdly, and the question is so off-topic Revan almost can’t even keep up with it.

“Have I- You think I’m imagining this?” Revan almost can’t believe her friend.  _ “Seriously, _ Malak?”

He shrugs one shoulder, returns to worrying at his jacket’s frayed cuffs. “That’s a no,” he says, and Revan lets out a long breath and thumps her head lightly against the viewscreen, then winces as that jars the bruise on her cheekbone from one of Mandalore’s punches. “Look, I’m not saying you’re wrong, just that you could be hearing some- echo from the battle earlier. If you’re still hearing it after you’ve slept, then we can talk about it.”

Revan shakes her head, a twitch. “It’s not an echo, Malak. And I don’t need to sleep.”

_ “Revan,” _ he says, soft, and nudges her leg with his toe, pushing concern and fondness into the Force around them. “Hey. We did what we had to do.”

“I  _ know, _ and I’d do it again, but that doesn’t mean-” Revan bites the sentence off, frustrated. “I can’t stop  _ hearing _ them, you know. And Master Kae-”

“Alright, enough of that,” Malak mutters, and gets up, moves over to sit down next to and slightly behind her. “Come here.” He opens his arms and Revan leans back into them willingly, closing her eyes and resting her uninjured cheek on Malak’s shoulder.

“I’m pretty sure your Master would call us bad Jedi for this,” she mumbles, the familiar warmth of her closest friend’s touch soothing the ache in her body, and the brush of his mind against hers easing the ache in her mind. “Something something hugging, something something Dark Side of the Force.”

“Nah,” Malak says with a chuckle, wrapping his arms around her. “It’s only bad if it’s romantic, remember? And you don’t do that.”

“Hey, I  _ might,” _ Revan retorts, though she’s too tired to put much energy into it. “I just don’t know yet, you’re the only person I’ve ever needed.”

“I know. You’re the only person I need, too.”

“That’s not what you said about Jarael.”

“Shut  _ up.” _ Malak smacks her arm and Revan elbows him in the stomach in retaliation. “See if I ever try to make you feel better again.”

“You say this every time, I’m pretty sure I can safely assume you don’t mean it by now.” Revan lets out a long sigh; the banter helps, but the Force still twists uncomfortably across her thoughts, whispering of pain, of horror, of betrayal, of thousands of stars vanishing in a long, drawn-out crush. Despite what she’d told Malak, she really is exhausted - single combat with Mandalore the Ultimate had  _ drained _ her, and that’s not even taking into account everything that happened after - and the longer she stays here, leaning against Malak’s chest, the more appealing sleep sounds.

She’s been having nightmares since Cathar. Really, what’s one more scene to add to the rest?

“If you’re going to fall asleep now, you shouldn’t do it on the bridge, where everyone will see you as soon as the night shift comes up here,” Malak says, nudging her, and she grumbles.

“I thought you wanted me to sleep.”

“In your  _ bunk, _ yes.” Malak nudges her again. “Come on, your armor is digging into me anyway. Couldn’t you have taken it off?”

Revan sits up, reluctantly, and glares at him. “You brought this on yourself,” she points out, rolling her shoulders to ease the stiffness in them and sliding off the bank of controls and sensors she’d been using as a chair. “I didn’t have time to take it off.”

“Don’t give me that,” he huffs, standing as well, adjusting his jacket around his broad shoulders. “You just came up here to sulk as soon as you finished your responsibilities.”

“It’s not  _ sulking.” _ Revan glares harder, then turns and makes her way through banks of computers, screens, past the bridge’s holotable, to the turbolift in the back of the room. “I needed some space alone to think.”

Malak catches up to her, walking at her shoulder, and follows her into the turbolift, shaking his head. “Ten credits says you didn’t even go to the medics, did you?”

She groans, gives him a  _ look, _ but he doesn’t back down, and Revan fumbles into her belt and slaps ten credits down into his hand. “I looked myself over after the fight, did some healing on my own. You know I’m usually good about the medics,” she  _ is, _ after the first couple times she’d angered hers, she’d made a point of going to see them immediately after battles if she was injured, “I just didn’t want to increase their workload. There were a lot of injured today.”

Her best friend hums thoughtfully, but doesn’t press - but he doesn’t give the credits back either. Bastard.

The turbolift stops on the officer deck, and Revan steps out, Malak behind her, takes a deep breath and forces herself to push the echoing screams to the back of her mind. She’d made the right choice - sacrifices have to be made in war, she knows that. They won a great victory today, and she’s proud of that. Mandalore is dead and the Republic safe.

(But she can still hear the screams.)

They separate at the door to Revan’s quarters, and she keys open the door, but pauses before she steps inside. “Thank you, Malak,” she says, quietly, and sees him smile as he looks back over his shoulder at her.

“Any time,” he says before disappearing into his own room.

And on the edge of her thoughts, barely a whisper in the Force, Revan can still hear it:  _ come to me, young Jedi, and I will teach you the mysteries of the Force. _

~

Revan gives a speech to her entire fleet the next day, standing on the bridge of her capital ship, Mandalore’s mask in her hand. “The Mandalorians have been defeated, the threat to the Republic ended,” she tells them, and the officers and technicians and pilots on the bridge cheer, like she’s imagining is happening across all her ships. She gives them a moment to congratulate each other, even smiles herself, because it’s a good thing they’ve done, here, and then she sobers, straightens, notices all around her the people watching do the same.

“But the Mandalorians didn’t turn on us out of nowhere,” she continues. “I’m not the only Jedi who sensed a hidden Dark influence at work, here on the Outer Rim.” Which is true. “Something wanted the Mandalorians to attack the Republic, to destroy our homeworlds and our cultures, and it wanted this so much it risked being discovered to do so. Because of this, I’m taking any of you who are willing to follow me into the Unknown Regions, to search for the source of that influence. It’ll be dangerous, and I don’t know how long we’ll be gone for, but it’s a sacrifice we have to make so that nothing like this happens again.”

Revan stops talking to let the words sink in, waits until the quiet whispers around her settle back to silence before she continues. “Those of you who want to may return to your homes and families - you’ll be reassigned to serve under officers I’ve chosen to stay behind and protect the Republic from threats within, and to watch the remnants of the Mandalorian clans. There’s no shame in staying behind; after all, we went to war to protect the people we love.” She takes a deep breath, puts a smile on her face. “Report to your commanding officers with your decision by the end of tomorrow’s day-cycle. The fleet leaves for the Unknown Regions in three days.” Another pause, then: “Thank you,  _ all _ of you, for everything you’ve given to our cause, and for your service in protecting the Republic. Revan out.”

The projection shuts off and Revan slumps a little, leans against the edge of the holotable for a moment, lets the multitude of conversations around her wash over her. It’s done, then. She’s made the decision.

“Supreme Commander, sir,” someone calls, and Revan glances up, sees one of her officers by the communications console, a headset on - she nods acknowledgement and straightens, and the other woman continues. “I already have squadron commanders reporting in. How should I organize the new command?”

“Same way as before,” Revan says. “Try and keep squad units together, if you can, and give command to non-Jedi officers with good reputations. Some of the Jedi may stay back, but I want to phase them out of the command structure anyway now that the worst of the threat is ended. Actually-” An idea occurs to her, and she frowns, thoughtfully. “I should write something up for Senate approval, a clause giving Jedi command authority in states of emergency, then we don’t have to integrate them into the command structure at all. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before.”

The officer, Minda or Menda or something like that - Revan does her best to remember all their names, but it’s difficult when she doesn’t work with them all on a daily basis - cracks the smallest of smiles at the slight tangent. “Understood, sir. I’ll forward you the final numbers tomorrow, after I’ve reshuffled squads around to make up for missing numbers.”

Revan nods, thanks her, and moves around the bridge, discussing other logistics with the rest of her high command; they plot out a short hyperspace jump with the navigators that’ll take them beyond the edge of the known galaxy in the direction of the whisper Revan still senses, though it’s gone quieter, more of just a gentle tugging, now that she’s finally made the decision to follow it, and plan to send out probes into the nearby systems, followed by scouting missions. Revan knows she’ll know the source of the whisper once she sees it, suspects any of the Jedi with her will too, even if they aren’t the ones being called; whatever it is, it’s  _ powerful _ and unmistakable, even from so far away.

She’s barely finished her planning when Malak storms onto the bridge, frustration echoing into the Force around him, his eyes going unerringly to hers. He doesn’t say anything, just stands there, watching, and Revan sighs, knowing what he wants.

He’s seen her speech.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she says to her officers, and quickly backs out of the group before they can try to stop her. She’ll make it up to them later, but they have three days to make their plans. And they don’t need her help to figure out the individual composition of the squads they’re sending out on recon. “What do you want?” she hisses as she gets near enough to Malak, trying to keep her voice low. “This isn’t the best time.”

“Not here,” Malak says in a similarly low voice, rigidly controlled, and turns and strides back into the turbolift. Revan swears under her breath and hurries to catch up with him, makes it inside the turbolift just before it closes.

Malak takes them to one of the rec decks, where there are multiple training rooms reserved for both Jedi and regular soldiers, tugs her into the first free one and then pins her with a look.

“You saw the broadcast,” Revan says. It’s not a question.

“Were you planning to talk to me about this before you made your decision?” Malak asks, not-quite-sharp, and Revan sighs. “I’m your  _ second-in-command, _ Revan, and beyond that, I’m your-” he pauses, frustrated, makes a brief gesture with his hand as though to encompass everything they are to each other, “-I shouldn’t be finding out your plans, especially one like this, from a speech you made to the entire fleet!”

Revan rubs at her eyes, grimaces. “I know. I’m sorry, Malak - I tried to talk to you about it last night, but you didn’t want to listen.”

“I was  _ worried about you,” _ her best friend snaps, pacing back and forth with quick, short steps. “Do you know how many people you gave the order to kill yesterday? I’m  _ still _ half-numb in the Force from it all.”

“I know perfectly well what I asked Qatya to do, thank you,” Revan snaps back, icy, on edge for far more reasons than just the reminder. She  _ hates _ arguing with Malak, hates how easy it is to get vicious with him, hates how  _ wrong _ it feels when things are mixed up between them. Sometimes she can’t seem to help herself anyway. “I didn’t have time to talk to you this morning, I’d already told the troops I’d be addressing them today and I had to figure out the logistics beforehand.”

It’s a weak excuse and she knows it, and Malak knows it too, shaking his head and turning away from her. “You’ve got to stop doing this,” he says, and his frustration is thick enough in the Force she could choke on it. “We’re supposed to be  _ partners. _ That means we talk to each other about big decisions like this. What if I didn’t want to follow you out there?”

Revan goes still, something cold and queasy reaching up through her stomach into her throat. She hadn’t even considered- “Are you saying you’re leaving?” she asks,  _ hates _ how her voice sounds small.

She just- She’s never had to face anything without her best friend at her side.

Malak turns back around, quickly, eyes widening. “Of course not,” he says, “you know I’d never- But that’s why we have to  _ talk _ to each other, Revan.” The swiftness of his response is reassuring, and Revan pushes back the spike of fear, swallows hard and breathes her emotions out into the Force.

He’s right. “I’m sorry,” she says, sincerely. “Do you want to help me plan out the scouting pattern?” It’s a peace offering, but she also could use his opinion, and they both know it. “I didn’t mean to leave you out, Malak,” she adds, and she  _ does _ mean it. It’s just… easy to get lost in her position as Supreme Commander, to forget that she’s not doing this alone, and that her words and actions affect more than just people who follow her out of duty and loyalty.

Well. Malak follows her out of loyalty, too, but that’s different.

“You never do,” he sighs, and he’s right about that too. “Let’s just forget it, I don’t want to argue, and we need to get the logistics of this worked out before we split the fleet.”

Impulsively, Revan hugs him, quickly, just a brief squeeze of her arms around his shoulders before she pulls back and goes to lead the way out of the training room. She can feel his smile on her back as she goes.

They’ll be alright. And things’ll be better after this war is dealt with.

Revan is counting on it.

~

It takes nearly a month for them to find a solid lead.

Keeping up morale among the men is difficult during the downtime, though the first week or so most of them appreciate the rest and recovery time. After that, though, well - these men are soldiers, have been hardened by the last three years of nonstop war (and some of them were fighting the Mandalorians less officially before Revan stepped up and created the Republic Army), and they’ve been trained for action, to move on from their grief and leave it buried on the battlefield. They haven’t had more than a couple long breaks since the war began in earnest.

Each time a probe returns and a scouting party is sent out after it, people clamber over each other to see the reports and the recordings the probes and the scouts both bring back. They’re exploring new worlds, seeing places no one else in the Republic has seen before, and the excitement of that, as well as the knowledge that this  _ will _ help protect their homes, helps keep their spirits up. Still, there’s quite a lot of credits changing hands during the nightly fighting rings that spring up on the ships that most of the officers pretend they don’t know about, except Revan’s definitely seen some of them involved.

_ She _ involves herself one night, strolls down into the gym they’ve got the ring set up in and leans against a wall in the back, watching for a few rounds; the gym is full of cheerful, cheering people, holding drinks and passing credits back and forth, many of them watching on palm-sized holoprojectors as some thoughtful person records the current fight and broadcasts it on one of the fleet channels. She should scold them for taking up the channel, but really, they’ve got enough spare, and she can hardly begrudge the troops wanting to blow off some steam. 

Currently the pair in the ring is an athletic young woman Revan’s pretty sure is one of her minor officers - a sergeant or something - fighting against a large, burly man who’s stripped down to just an undershirt, letting everyone see his muscles. The woman is doing fabulously, really, light on her feet and using her smaller size against her opponent, but in the end the man gets her pinned, using his strength against her, and she’s forced to tap out.

“And Greft wins again!” the man doing the announcing calls out, to a mix of cheers and groans. “That’s six in a row! Anyone else want to try and take last night’s champion down?”

No one’s volunteering and the crowd is starting to look like it’s going to disperse, so Revan shrugs and steps through her troops (many of them, when they actually realize who she is, starting to snap to attention and pass the word around).

“Seven is my lucky number,” she calls out, and those who hadn’t been informed of the new arrival in their midst fall silent, everyone turning to look at her. Even the announcer has gone quiet and shocked, the rewired comm unit he’s using to project his voice falling away from his mouth. “What, is this not open to officers?”

“Supreme Commander?” the announcer manages, after a moment. “Er, this isn’t what it looks like-”

“I certainly hope it is,” Revan says, stepping into the ring - no one stops her. “Hold onto these for me, would you?” And she pulls her lightsabers off her belt and hands them over.

The announcer goes even more pale, if that’s possible - she’s never seen a Twi’lek so far away from their birth color before. “... sir?”

“You asked if there were any other challengers. I’m a challenger. Greft, right?” and she looks over at the man opposite her, who nods. “I might be a little rusty, I haven’t done much hand-to-hand sparring recently. What are the rules?”

The announcer finally takes her lightsabers in a shaky hand, sliding them through his belt with a surprising amount of reverence. “No knockouts, no breaking bones if at all possible, no weapons. Match is called at pinned for ten seconds or a tapout.”

Revan nods. “Easy enough. You going to announce me?”

She can see the gears turning in the man’s head, and after a moment he seems to finally realize she’s really not going to put a stop to the whole operation, and shrugs and grins, lifting the comm back to his mouth. “Well, ladies, gentlemen, and variations upon, it seems we have a new challenger for our champion: none other than Supreme Commander Revan!” A cacophony of cheers erupts across the room and Revan grins, shaking out her muscles as she looks at the man at least a foot taller than her and twice her weight.

(She’s sure that somewhere on the officer’s deck, Malak is getting a headache.)

“Ever fought a Jedi before, Greft?” she asks, starts a slow circle to the right, grateful she’s still wearing her gloves. Maybe it’s cheating that she’s still got her scattered pieces of armor on, but the announcer - clearly the organizer of this whole event - hadn’t said she had to take them off, and if it’s not against the rules then it’s not her fault no one else is wearing any.

“Can’t say I have,” the soldier responds with a grin. “Eager to give it a shot, though I’ve seen the footage of you fighting Mandalore and I don’t think I have much of a chance.” He joins the circling, settling into a ready position, and Revan’s pleased to see there’s clearly skill helping his size and strength.

“Does it help if I promise not to use the Force?” she offers, though it’s not like she can just turn off her enhanced reflexes, speed, and strength.

“Not particularly, but I appreciate the effort.”

It’s not a long fight.

Neither are the three fights after that, which Revan wins with ease, even without using the Force against her opponents; she’s tried to make things a little easier on them, but between her Force-augmented physical abilities and the years of training, well, it’s hardly fair. But that doesn’t seem to put anyone off - there are cheers every time she pins someone to the floor, the Twi’lek announcer (Ban’lyth, someone supplies at one point) laughs and calls out descriptions of Revan’s victories with increasingly flowery metaphors comparing her to all kinds of predators, and the Force of the room is full with vibrant life, warmth and good cheer. The people she fights don’t seem disappointed by their losses either, and she’s half-convinced at least one of them only volunteered to get the chance to be this close to their Supreme Commander.

All of them will probably be bragging about this for  _ months. _

After the fourth win, Revan can’t help a showy little bow, which sends laughter and further applause scattering across the room. It feels  _ good _ to be here, bringing laughter instead of causing death, especially when she can still feel the echoes of Malachor in her dreams. 

There are a couple other fights, but then things settle down, and Ban’lyth cheerfully declares her the champion of the night, to a wild round of cheering. (Though the woman who runs the betting pool quietly tells Revan she’d ruined the night’s economy because no one dared to bet against her, so if she does this again could she make sure to at least lose  _ one _ round, thank you.) And Revan goes to sleep that night pleasantly tired and smiling, and for once she doesn’t dream.

In the morning, when she meets Malak on her way to the officer’s mess, he just sighs and says, “Next time, take me with you, so I can watch.”

Revan counts that as a victory.

It’s only a few days after that the probe comes back, filled with data and images of a jungle, and frequent storms. And it doesn’t seem any different from other worlds they’ve seen through the probes, but then Malak points out something in the distance in the last shot, and when Revan magnifies the image, takes a closer look, it looks like-

A temple.

And the tugging in the back of her mind, that faint whisper, strengthens exponentially when she looks at it, and she  _ knows. _

“That’s it,” she breathes, and Malak shoots her a look. “That’s where we need to go.”

Admiral Jenn, commander of Revan’s own flagship, doesn’t argue - she’s a competent woman (part of why Revan had immediately picked her) and has gotten used to working under Jedi in the last three years - just nods. “I’ll notify a scouting team,” she starts, then falls silent when Revan shakes her head.

“No. I don’t want to risk any of the troops right away - it’ll just be Malak and I. I don’t know what we’ll find down there.”

The Admiral pauses, looks at Revan thoughtfully. “Your troops were looking forward to a chance to be directly under your command,” she says, not an objection, just a statement of fact.

Revan sighs. “I know. And if everything goes well, I’ll have you send the scouting party after us, but for now, it’s not worth it.”

Jenn nods, and they devise a communication schedule, a rendezvous point, and work out the rest of the logistics, and then Revan goes to her rooms to pack up some basic supplies.

Finally, they have a lead. And while the tugging that’s been pulling her in this direction since Malachor has seemed- strangely friendly, Revan can’t help but have a bad feeling about all of this. But there’s nothing for it now.

They have to see this through, until the very end.

~

The jungle is thick, massive trees and twining roots, leafy undergrowth and vines twisting together to create a wall of foliage difficult to maneuver through. Between the difficulty of the trek and the humidity, even if the air is cooler than she’d expected upon hearing they were going to a jungle planet, Revan still tires more quickly than she usually would. From the sweat on Malak’s head and his tired annoyance in the Force, she’s not the only one. Still, they manage to make it to the outskirts of the temple the probe had picked up by the end of the second night, and at that point Revan sends Admiral Jenn an encrypted message saying they’ll be going on comm-silence to avoid detection, and to assume that if they haven’t sent a followup in a week that they’re in trouble.

She hasn’t  _ seen _ any signs of technology around, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any, and the temple has a strange sense to it in the Force, heavy and very clearly Dark, and nearly echoing.

“I sense it too,” Malak says when she asks him about it, as they lay their bedrolls out for the night up against the base of a tree. They hadn’t dared risk lighting a fire, with this much foliage around and with the temple so close, so they’d had to heat up ration packs (disgusting things, even if they’re nutritionally better than what Revan would rather be eating) over the heat lamp one of the scientists on board the fleet had insisted they bring, something about jungle not meaning hot. Revan hadn’t really listened to him before, and now she’s wishing she had.

“Whatever turned the Mandalorians is in that temple,” Revan says, laying down - Malak has offered to take first watch, and she’s not going to argue. “And it probably knows we’re here.”

She tries not to think about how  _ Dark _ this place feels, and how whatever - or whoever - it is had waited until Malachor to call to her.

(Half her army. But nearly all of the Mandalorians’. Was it worth it?  _ Yes, _ she tells herself, over and over again, and shoves down the tiny voice in the back of her mind that murmurs  _ no.) _

“We haven’t been attacked yet,” Malak points out, leaning back against the tree and drinking from a thermos of instant caf he’d made himself when they cooked their rations. “Maybe it’s not hostile.”

“Or maybe it doesn’t need to attack us,” Revan murmurs, and a shiver crawls across her skin, not at all due to the temperature. It’s a concerning thought, and one she hadn’t worried much about when surrounded by the protection of her fleet, but now that they’re here, alone on a planet they know almost nothing about, within reach of a kind of Dark presence Revan’s never felt anything like before… things feel different. More real.

Malak grimaces, and Revan can feel that same nervousness echoing off him, but he doesn’t bring it up, just sighs and says, “Get some sleep, I’ll wake you when it’s your watch.”

It’s hard to sleep. The Dark presence nearby means that when Revan finally does, she dreams of Malachor; she sees the planet’s surface crack from the eyes of a dozen different faces, Mandalorians and Jedi and Republic soldiers alike, feels their terror and resignation and pain as fleets - and the world - tear themselves to pieces around them.

She’s grateful when Malak wakes her up for her watch.

Sitting nearly-alone in the unfamiliar jungle doesn’t exactly help her nerves, but it gives her time to meditate (as little use as she’d found for meditation during the war, when in the height of battle her emotions often gave her the extra strength she needed, she can’t deny that right now it helps to be able to settle and center herself), which she’s thankful for, and so by the time the planet’s sun starts to crest the horizon and she shakes Malak awake, she feels- better. Calm, at least, which is the best she could really hope for right now.

They eat in silence and pack up their camp, and Revan stashes the bag with the majority of their supplies in it in a nook in a small rock formation she’d found while they looked for a place to camp the night before. If all goes well, they can return here to grab it after a day of recon, and if it doesn’t… well. No use worrying about that for now.

The temple itself is  _ huge, _ Revan discovers when she and Malak get close to it, easily the size of the Coruscant Jedi Temple, with every indication that it continues underground, and it looks and feels old. Older than she’d expected. There’s no real entrance other than the front, and though the place doesn’t look like a  _ ruin, _ it’s also unguarded - maybe this part of the planet isn’t occupied, or maybe this particular site has been recently abandoned. Not long enough for nature to have overtaken it - there’s a wide courtyard out front with braziers (unlit) and worn stone steps leading up to the doors, all of which is free from any encroaching greenery.

“I don’t like this,” Malak mutters as they climb the steps, carefully, approaching the doors. “Going through the front door? If there’s anyone here, we’re just asking to be ambushed.”

He’s not wrong. “I don’t like it either, but I didn’t see any other ways in,” Revan says back quietly, and then she steps up to the door and hesitates.

She doesn’t like doing this, exactly. Depending how much history the place has she could get overwhelmed from the feedback and find herself struggling to sense anything through the Force for the rest of the day, or she could get nothing at all. Or she could get a vision that will actively help them.

Revan sighs and carefully works off her left glove, briefly glancing up as she feels something heavier than the mist the morning’s been shrouded in splash against her cheeks - it’s starting to rain. All the more reason to get this over with.

“Are you sure?” Malak asks, catching her bare hand in his before she can touch the door. “Your psychometry is-”

“Unpredictable, I know,” Revan says, offers him a faint smile. “If this goes sideways, carry me back to camp and we’ll try again tomorrow.”

Malak doesn’t look convinced - he’s concerned, he always is when she uses her psychometry, which she typically only does in old ruins when she wants answers - but after searching her eyes for a moment, he nods and lets go of her hand.

Revan takes a deep breath, then reaches out to the Force and brushes her bare fingers against the temple’s door.

_ Laughter. Darkness deeper and heavier than the blackest parts of space. Power pressing down on the stones themselves, worming its way into their ancient bones, steeping them in the Dark Side as the temple is constructed. Sith walk across these floors to pay homage to their Emperor, a Force nexus of immense power always shrouded in a robe and a cowl, and then they die, and their bodies and spirits are entombed here. Their ghosts drift along the walls, waiting to catch the unwary in the grip of madness.  _

_ Something shifts. _

_ Coal-red eyes flare open, burning into her soul -  _ her  _ soul. Separated from the temple and yet not returned to herself. The eyes smile, and a voice murmurs, “Welcome, young Jedi, to my Dark Temple. Do you like what you see?” _

Revan yanks her hand back from the door and stumbles back, thunks against Malak’s solid warmth, which is a comfort - she’s shaking, she realizes, heart pounding in her chest like she’s just sprinted the entire length of her flagship. Malak wraps his arms tightly around her, offers her her glove - she must’ve dropped it when she made contact with the temple.

“You alright?” he asks, his voice low in her ear.

She takes a moment to just breathe, trying to quell the shaking, before she nods. “I saw-  _ shit,” _ she mutters, rubs at her forehead before pulling her glove back on. “This place - it’s some kind of fortress, it’s ancient. When they built it, they turned it into a place of power, that’s why it’s so strong with the Dark Side.” A drop of water rolls down the back of her neck and Revan blames her shiver on the cold of it. “There are Sith ghosts here, and someone… the temple thinks of him as an Emperor. He’s the one who called to me.”

“Sith?” Malak asks, stepping back once she’s steadied herself and giving her a shocked look. “The true Sith are extinct.”

Revan shakes her head. “That’s what the Jedi think,” she breathes, staring at him. “The whole galaxy thinks that the worst thing they can face is the Mandalorians, is another fallen Jedi who found a Sith holocron. And they’re  _ wrong.” _

Malak shivers noticeably. “We have to warn them,” he says. “Or better yet - find a way to protect them even if they won’t believe us. We have those coordinates-”

“Not yet,” she says, cutting him off. “I want to find out more first, and then we can take the fleet. That planet - it’ll still be there.”

Her friend nods, then clearly steels himself before reaching up to push open the door and start through. Revan follows him, careful to make as little noise as possible, drawing the Force up around her like a cloak and a shield, trying to hide her presence - she layers her mind with as many shields as she can manage, but she can still feel the Dark aura of the temple curling around her like the low mist eddying and swirling around her feet.

The place is lit in eerie green from sconces along the walls, and Revan sets one hand on a lightsaber, carefully creeps up the stairs in front of her. It’s nearly impossible to tell if there’s anyone else here, as she can’t reach out into the Force without brushing against the massive, omnipresent  _ Darkness _ from this Emperor. Up ahead, the temple opens out into a cavernous space with a high ceiling disappearing into shadows; if she squints into the gloom she can see a second floor balcony ringing the walls, and looking around past the many support pillars she can see chambers and hallways that branch off this main atrium. She doesn’t see anyone moving around inside, and tentatively she steps out into the atrium, looking around again for a moment before squaring her shoulders and setting off.

Malak follows her as they walk towards the barely-visible far end of the room, the sound of their breathing and footsteps the only thing breaking the silence. The quiet is so heavy it’s nearly a physical weight on Revan’s shoulders, smothering her, making it hard to breathe, and that only increases as they reach the end of the atrium and see the stairs that spiral up and down.

Revan thinks of the layout of the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, then nods at Malak and starts to climb.

After a minute or two, she reaches the second story, Malak directly behind her. The stairs widen out into brief platform - off to her right there’s an arch granting access to the balcony overlooking the main atrium - before climbing again, and she takes a moment to look out onto the balcony, as far as she can see, confirming there’s no one out there before they start to climb again.

(For a moment, as she turns back to the stairs, she thinks she sees something moving in the shadows in her peripheral vision, scurrying back into her blind spot, but when she twists to look, there’s nothing there.)

“Did you see that?” she murmurs to Malak, barely audible, because for some reason speaking feels like a bad idea here.

Malak frowns at her. “See what?”

She just shakes her head. A trick of the light, probably.

The staircase comes to a stop at a third story, a wide landing before a set of double doors made of some dark material. Revan hesitates as she stops in front of them; the Dark presence is strongest here, just behind these doors, so powerful she can’t even attempt to block it out. She reaches over wordlessly, takes Malak’s hand and squeezes tight for a moment, trying to gain strength from the contact.

This is a bad idea. They should just turn around and leave, now, while they still can, before this place springs to life around them - because in all their time spent here, it’s now that Revan places the strange feeling in the air as  _ anticipation, _ waiting. 

This entire place is a trap. And she’s walked right into it. (Convinced her closest friend to follow her in.)

But she can’t go back to her fleet without some kind of understanding of what they’re facing here, beyond a brief Force vision. She has to know what she needs to protect the Republic from.

So she steps forward and pushes open the door.

The room in front of her is long, narrow, two sets of pillars marching down on either side of a long rug, leading to a dais. And on the dais is a tall black throne.

And on the throne is-

“Welcome, young Jedi,” the Emperor says. “I am Vitiate, Emperor of the Sith, and I’ve been waiting for you.”

And Revan realizes she and Malak might not make it out of this alive.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in other news i still don't know how the military works. or exactly how ship classes work in sw. *sighs* oh well. this chapter accomplished like, exactly nothing except informing me that perhaps i will have to eat my words about this being a mostly LS Revan??? i love it when the characters develop themselves without telling me that's what they're doing. anyway, this fic finally has a plot, and *sighs again* yes the Star Forge is going to feature.
> 
> whoops.
> 
> i'm moving in like a week so idk if i'll get another chapter out before then we'll see how much procrastinating i need to do!

They’re in hyperspace for another two days before they reach Coruscant. The trip gives Revan plenty of time to rest, and to learn from Carth what happened while she and Malak were prisoners - apparently, after they’d failed to report in for their scheduled followup, Admiral Jenn had sent a small rescue team, who had  _ also _ failed to report in, and she’d ended up having to order the retreat to known space before too many people got nervous. It hadn’t been her desire to abandon Revan and Malak, apparently, Carth says, and Revan understands.

If Jenn had tried to wait longer, she might’ve had a mutiny on her hands, and in an unknown sector of space that would’ve been catastrophic.

Thankfully, the majority of the fleet hadn’t been terribly far away, and Bastila had been visiting (Bastila had explained, when pressed, that she’s developed a surprisingly-strong control over battle meditation, which Revan knows to be a rare Force ability, and one that’ll certainly be useful in a war, although she hadn’t needed anything like it against the Mandalorians) when they’d received Revan’s distress call, so it’d been decided to send her along with the small strike team Admiral Jenn authorized to go investigate.

When Revan asked why they hadn’t sent one of the more experienced Jedi who should’ve still been with the fleet, Carth had explained that it’d been at the express order of the Jedi Council - something about a test mission for Bastila, or something.

Revan appreciates their honesty, appreciates also the way they don’t pry into the details of what happened while she was a captive. The Jedi Council tries to, but Revan rebuffs them every time, informs them she’ll give them the details  _ in person, _ in a conference with the Chancellor, and she expects Carth and Bastila to be there as well, since they’re the ones who found her.

The Council doesn’t like that, something about Carth not having the kind of rank that would let him into such a sensitive position.

Revan shrugs and field promotes him to admiral.

There’s protests. Revan reminds them she has the power to do it, and then congratulates Carth on his new rank.

“Not that I don’t appreciate your faith in me, but are you sure about this?” Carth asks her, after she’s finished the comm.

Revan considers him for a moment. “Can you handle the responsibility?” she asks. “And do you understand tactics?”

Carth nods. “Admiral Saul Karath was my mentor,” he says, and that’s enough of a recommendation for Revan. “But you’ve never seen me lead, you don’t know if I’d be a good fit for the position.”

She shrugs. “If Saul Karath likes you enough to mentor you, that’s all I need to know. He’s one of my best officers. Besides, your crew here all speaks highly of you,” and she gestures around the ship. “And I want you in that meeting - you deserve to know.”

Carth looks at her for a minute, like he’s searching for something - sincerity, maybe - and then he nods. “Thank you,” he says, quiet, and she smiles as he salutes. “I won’t let you down, Revan.”

“I know,” she tells him. She’s always had a good instinct for this sort of thing.

When they have about six hours left in hyperspace, the medic, Sage, calls her to the medbay. “Your friend is going to be waking up soon,” they say, “I can’t keep him sedated much longer.”

Malak is out of the kolto tank, laying pale and still under the thin hospital blanket, and Revan  _ aches _ a little, looking at him. He shouldn’t look like this. “Thank you for telling me,” she says, perches on the edge of the other bunk in the room. “I’ll wait here for him to wake up, if you don’t mind.”

Sage nods, walks towards the door. “I’ll give you two some space,” they say, and the door hisses closed behind them.

Revan busies herself by scrolling through reports on the datapad she’d requisitioned - she’s been out of touch with the galaxy for at least two months, counting the time she’d spent with the fleet in the Unknown Regions, and though not much has happened galactically that’s noteworthy, she checks up on news from Coruscant, from Dantooine (mainly to keep an eye on the Enclave there), and from a couple of the sectors recently hit hard by the Mandalorians. Thankfully, everything seems peaceful, and people are starting to rebuild, slowly. Good.

That means everything she did during the war was worth it.

It’s maybe fifteen minutes later that Malak’s Force-signature stirs in time with his body, and Revan looks up, tucking her datapad away as he groans and his eyes blink open. He tenses, the Force flaring with defensiveness, and his voice is raspy. “What…?”

“Hey, Malak,” she says, and he turns his head to look at her, the tension draining away immediately. “We’re safe, we made it out.”

Malak lifts one hand, rubs at his eyes, and Revan gets up, crosses over to the sink in the corner and fills a glass of water, bringing it to him and helping him drink it. “Thanks,” he says, and she nods, setting the glass down on one of the shelves against the wall.  _ “Force, _ I feel like shit.”

Revan can’t help laughing as she sits back down on the other bunk. “Look like it too,” she says, and Malak gives her a flat stare, lips pressed together in an unimpressed line. “It’s good to see you awake, I’ve been worried.”

He relaxes into a smile that turns into a grimace when he tries to sit up - Revan reaches out to stop him, but he settles back into the bunk before she can reach him. “How long has it been?”

“We were captives for almost a month, and it’s been two days since we escaped. We’re about six hours out of Coruscant.”

Captives. Such a small word to encompass all the  _ horror. _

Malak closes his eyes for a minute. “They’ll listen to us,” he says, something heavy creeping into his voice. “After everything we’ve done for them, everything we’ve sacrificed, they can’t ignore our warnings.”

“I know,” Revan says, leans across the space between them to put her hand on his arm. “If they don’t listen, I have a plan - the Army, the Navy, they follow  _ us, _ not the Jedi Council. We’ll stop Vitiate, no matter what we have to do.”

She puts every ounce of her conviction into her voice when she speaks - the Republic  _ will _ follow her, they have ever since early in the war. Even before they named her Supreme Commander (which is a frankly ridiculous title, and if she’d been allowed to change it she would’ve, but unfortunately it stuck around), every single Jedi fighting alongside the fleet had followed Revan’s orders above everything else, and the soldiers they’d worked with and commanded had picked that up. Even before her authority became official, a word from her and half the Navy would abandon whatever order they’d been given before.

She could order her fleet to turn and fire on the Republic right now and three quarters of them would do it.

Malak perks up, as she’d hoped he would, eyes snapping open and locking onto hers. “You still have the coordinates?” he breathes, hope flooding into the Force, and Revan nods.

“I lost the datapad we had with them, but my backup is still in my quarters on the  _ Vengeance. _ We still need Korriban’s data, though.” They’d never made it that far out during the war, though from what she remembers, Vitiate’s mystery planet hadn’t been more than a few hours away in hyperspace. Maybe as little as a sector over.

Now, more than ever, Revan’s grateful she’d thought to make two copies of the information she’d extracted from the terminals in the ruins on Dantooine, as well as the hyperspace route coordinates on each of the four maps she and Malak had carefully recovered during the war, when they had the spare time and were nearby. She doesn’t know what the Star Forge is, not  _ really, _ but from what the terminals had said, it’s a powerful superweapon of some kind. Powerful enough to defeat Vitiate, she thinks. (Hopes.)

Malak grins, pushes warmth at her through the Force. “Genius, I knew it was a good idea to make two copies. Are you going to tell the Republic about it?”

“Not until we know what it is - you  _ know _ that if word got back to Vrook or Vandar, they’d somehow find a way to stop us from going after it.”

“I’d like to see them  _ try _ to stop you when you’re on a mission,” Malak scoffs, lifting one hand to lightly smack her upper arm. “You’re worse than a starving bantha on a pile of fodder when you get focused.”

“Hey!” Revan gives him a  _ look.  _ “Force, you’ve been awake for all of ten minutes and you’re already insulting me. I should’ve told Sage to keep you sedated.”

Malak rolls his eyes; he’s probably been aware enough in the Force the last few days to sense Revan’s worry for him (they’ve always been far more in-tune with each other than they should be, thoughts and feelings passing too freely between them for it to be normal - they’ve never talked about it, it’s just how they are. Two halves of a whole, within the Force and without), and she suspects that’s why he’s acting as normal as he can, despite the fact that she can feel he’s tired and sore, and they’re both determinedly avoiding even thinking too much about what happened within Vitiate’s Dark Temple. “You missed me,” he says, “admit it.”

“Hardly,” Revan retorts, but she takes his hand and squeezes it tightly. It’s been too long since she’s been able to properly reassure herself with his touch. “How are you feeling?” she asks, sobering, not letting go of his hand.

Malak sighs, shifting in the bunk so he can see her easier. “I need sleep,” he says, “and I’m not sure I’ll be ready to walk off this ship when we land, but I’ll be ready when we go to face Vitiate.”

“Good.” Revan squeezes his hand again, smiles. “I’ll make sure they send Jedi healers to look at you while I meet with the Council.”

“I should be there,” he protests. “They’ll listen better if it’s both of us, and I hate letting you go see the Council on your own.”

She appreciates that. Visiting the Council, even via comm, has always been… an experience, and never a fun one. They don’t like her, never have - Vrook thinks she’s too angry, too stubborn, too passionate, and he’s criticized her for it multiple times, frequently in front of others. And she doesn’t report to the Council  _ often _ \- her reports go to those of her officers and Jedi who need to see them, and to the Chancellor - but sometimes there are things the Jedi as a whole should know, things she hopes they’ll act on, and as Supreme Commander it’s her job to report them. No matter how much she dislikes that particular responsibility.

Well, she’s always talking to the troops about sacrifices, this happens to be her own personal one.

“I’d rather have you with me too, but it’s  _ imperative _ we get them the news as quickly as possible. And before you say anything - I want you to focus on healing, alright?” Revan gives Malak a pointed look, because she  _ knows _ otherwise he’ll be pushing himself to be at her side, no matter how much pain he’s in. “I need you at your best once we head out.”

Malak holds her gaze for a minute, nearly challenging, then he slumps against his pillow and nods. “Alright,” he says, tired, and she’s not surprised he agreed - he always does, in the end.

“Get some sleep, you need it,” Revan tells him, standing and giving his hand one last squeeze before letting go. “I want us to be heading back out there in two weeks.”

Malak gives her a lopsided grin. “Yes, sir,” he teases, and she rolls her eyes and starts for the door to the medbay, “Revan,” he calls, before she leaves, and the more serious tone to his voice stops her, makes her glance back over her shoulder at him. “Thank you,” he says. “For not leaving me there.”

Revan doesn’t have an answer for that - how can she tell him  _ I’d rather have died than leave you, you’re the only sacrifice I refuse to make, I’d damn a planet to save you _ (and she’s done it before, though she never told him that was why), especially when they are Jedi and Jedi are supposed to be beyond attachments like this - so she just smiles.

~

Coruscant seems strange, viewed now through the lens of three years of war, of muddied battlegrounds and broken cities and piles of bodies and bones, and through the lens of a month in a temple where the very stones are alive with power and the shadows twist and writhe around your feet and ghosts whisper in your mind. Revan hasn’t been back in over a year - she’d taken only a couple brief leaves during the war, and had spent all of them with Malak hunting down the Rakatan maps - and the glittering lights, the fields of neon and glass, the ravines of durasteel, they all seem so artificial. Even the massive spires of the Jedi Temple and the squat Senate tower don’t look quite real, pristine as they are.

The  _ Vengeance _ is in orbit around Coruscant - while most of the fleet had remained near the Outer Rim under Saul Karath’s command, Jenn had brought Revan’s flagship and part of the fleet back to protect the Core Worlds - and Revan has the small cruiser dock with it first, giving her time to visit both her and Malak’s quarters on board. Pulling on her own clothes after a couple days of wearing ones a little too tight in the shoulders and too short in the leg feels nice, and she takes a moment to grab clothes for Malak as well and to find the  _ heavily _ encrypted datastick she stores the map’s coordinates on, along with all the other information about the Star Forge they’d managed to get from various terminals in the Dantooine ruins. 

Necessary items collected, she returns to the light cruiser, drops off Malak’s clothes in the medbay (he’s asleep again, so she just sets them on the second bunk and backs out as quietly as she can), and then they take the ship down to land.

For the first time since the rescue, Revan finds herself thinking of her mask, still in Vitiate’s grasp, more than likely - she has no idea what he’s done with it. Kept it, probably; after all the effort he’d gone to to draw her out there, keeping something so important to her would ensure she comes back. (And she will, but it will be in a rain of fire and metal.) She hasn’t done  _ anything  _ important around people without her mask since she’d found it on Cathar - she doesn’t  _ always _ wear it, of course, but when giving speeches or on the battlefield or addressing the Republic and the Jedi…

Now she doesn’t have a mask to wear, and for the first time in years, everything she feels will be  _ visible. _ And it nearly terrifies her.

Revan takes a deep breath as she steps out of the ship onto the landing pad, reaches for the Force and determinedly lets her fears out with the air in her lungs. This would be easier with Malak beside her; she’s always drawn on his solid strength, taken comfort and increased conviction from the way he’s always there to support her ideas. Any time she has to directly speak with the full Council, Malak always finds a way to be there in person with her, ever since the first time she defied them, storming out to find an army of Jedi to fight the Mandalorians.

This is the first time she’s gone to see them alone in three years. And without her mask… 

Revan isn’t looking forward to this.

She’s pulled a dark grey cloak on over her modified robes and armor, and she lifts the hood of it now as she approaches two Republic soldiers stood at attention and a pair of Temple guardians in their white and gold armor and masked faces (she’s jealous of that, wishes she could ask one to lend her a mask - no matter that it’s forbidden for a Temple guardian to remove their mask in the presence of non-guardians. Maybe she can find a spare one and borrow it?); it’s not her mask but it’s at least a little protection.

The soldiers salute as she approaches, Carth and Bastila following behind her, and the one on the right gestures to a large speeder, one of two they must’ve brought from the Senate. “Supreme Commander, we’re here to escort you to the Jedi Temple, by order of the Supreme Chancellor.”

There’s too many Supreme’s in that sentence for Revan’s comfort; she remembers the lack of a mask just in time and smooths away the impending facial expression before it can show. “Thank you,” she says, steps into the speeder and sits down. Both sets of guards follow, and as soon as they’re settled the driver takes off at a far more sedate pace than Revan’s  _ ever _ driven a speeder, the second speeder following behind with Carth and Bastila.

(The night after they’d been Knighted, she and Alek had snuck out of the Temple via a back entrance in the lower levels, in carefully-chosen dark clothes and nondescript cloaks that blended in with the shadows between the neon; they’d just been going exploring, Revan intending to use her new freedom to find the illicit swoop tracks she  _ knew _ were on the lower levels somewhere, but that Master Kae had never let her go looking for, but then Revan had seen the speeder.

Sleek and well-designed with the kind of engine belonging on a racing-ready swoop, it had had just enough room for the two of them to squeeze in, and after some prodding, she’d managed to convince Alek to hotwire the thing. They’d swerved in and out of traffic at the highest speeds Revan could get out of the engine, had ended up being chased by the local police until Alek had pointed out a place they could lose their pursuers, and Revan remembers the rush of the wind in her face as her hair streamed out behind her, the freedom and the laughter, and the light in Alek’s eyes she’d known was mirrored in her own.)

The ride is longer than she wishes it’d be, but it does give Revan time to breathe, to carefully release her emotions and control her face. She can do this, she tells herself repeatedly, and by the time the speeder pulls up at the entrance to the Temple, she almost believes it.

“We’ll wait here for you to return,” her Army escort informs her. “We aren’t welcome in the Temple usually.”

Revan nods. “This might be a while. If you give me a comm frequency, you two can relax until I let you know I’m done.”

The two guards look at each other gratefully, and she saves the frequency the more talkative one rattles off before turning to climb the steps to the Temple. The pair of guardians apparently assigned to her follows, slightly behind her, one at either shoulder, and it unnerves her.

“Do you two have to follow me everywhere?” she asks. “I’m a Jedi, not a prisoner. This is my home.”

It was her home, before, almost as much as the bluffs on Dantooine. She’s a little surprised that the warm, airy hallways still feel like a place of respite.

Neither Temple guardian answers, and Revan sighs, straightens her shoulders - reminds herself again to keep her face  _ blank _ \- and starts for the turbolift that’ll take her to the Jedi Council chambers.

(She really, really needs to find herself a mask.)

It’s clear Bastila has never been to this Temple, or if she has it’s been a long time, because she’s looking around at everything with unrestrained awe, and her presence in the Force is suffused with a mixture of nervousness and excitement. Carth, trailing behind their group just a hair as though he’s watching their backs, is clearly attempting to seem like he doesn’t care about their surroundings, but Revan catches him shooting covert looks around as they walk.

“I grew up here,” she tells both her companions, and she can feel their eyes on her immediately. “I lived in the creche until I was nine, and then they sent Alek and I and a few others to Dantooine to train there. We ended up back here after we were taken as padawans, though.” She smiles a little at the memories - no matter how much resentment and anger she feels when working with the Jedi Council, she can’t erase the years of happiness she and Alek felt here.

Maybe that’s why walking through the grand doors still feels like coming home.

There are six Masters in attendance when Revan steps into the circular chamber, Bastila and Carth behind her (Bastila goes very quiet the moment the doors open, and Revan feels a trail of anger at that that she hastily suppresses before it can show on her face). The room is unchanged since the last time Revan was here, gold and brown floors and a ring of chairs and the stone in the center. (She’d really like to know what the  _ point _ of it is, other than making it difficult to see everyone in the room.)

Atris, Vrook, Vandar, Kavar, Zez-Kai, and Vash - who has the dubious honor of being the only High Council member Revan likes, even vaguely - eye her with various expressions as she steps into the center of the room (or as near as she can get with the rock in the way) and gives them a short bow, biting the inside of her cheek to keep her face still. “Masters,” she says, as calmly as she can.

“Knight Revan, Padawan Shan, Admiral-” and here Vrook’s lip curls unpleasantly at the reminder of the lengths Revan had gone to to get Carth into this conference, “-Onasi.” His eyes focus on the door, for a moment, like he’s waiting for a fourth person, and he seems surprised when no one else steps through. “We have Chancellor Cressa on the comms.”

Sure enough, there’s a projection of the current Chancellor standing in front of one of the empty chairs, watching thoughtfully; he inclines his head when he’s named.  _ “Supreme Commander Revan,” _ he greets,  _ “it’s good to see you returned to us.” _

“It’s good to be back, Chancellor,” Revan says - and she means it, even if she doesn’t particularly want to be  _ here. _ She’s just grateful to be away from Vitiate. “If you’re wondering where Malak is, he’s still recovering from his injuries and couldn’t be here.”

“Yes, your injuries,” Vash says. “We were told they were severe. Are you alright?”

Revan dismisses the question with a wave of her hand. “I’m here because I have discovered the power that turned the Mandalorians against the Republic, and I couldn’t risk telling you about it over a comm. I asked Bastila and Carth to join me because as my rescuers, I believe they deserve to know what happened.” She lifts her chin, meets each of the Master’s gazes, calmly, manages to suppress the flare of anger she feels at the clear derision in Vrook’s gaze.

“Go on, then,” Atris says. “Some of us have projects to get back to.”

Revan allows herself to smile, razor-thin. “Some of us have an army to run,” she responds, a faint edge to her voice. Atris doesn’t apologize, but she doesn’t push, either, and if she’d had her mask Revan would be smiling so much wider now. (In the corner of her eye she can see Bastila looking distinctly uncomfortable - Carth does as well, when she pays attention to him. She supposes they wouldn’t really want to witness her sniping at the Jedi High Council.) 

She sighs, shakes her head a little. “We spent a month, about, in the Unknown Regions sending out probes and scouting parties, looking for the source of a Dark influence several of the Jedi and I had sensed. One of the probes came back with some images of what looked like an ancient ruin, and it was clear to me this was what we’d been searching for, so Malak and I went down to the planet alone to investigate.”

That’s the easy part to tell, and they probably all know it already - she sees Kavar nodding along, and Carth has relaxed into a casual parade rest. Revan swallows, licks her lips, and then remembers she’s bare-faced and quickly shoves away the nervous tick.

“Malak and I discovered a temple. It seemed abandoned, but that was a front - the place was a trap. We didn’t know it at the time, but there’s a city about a day from the temple on foot, with shipyards and what seems to be a large population.” Off to her right, Carth is frowning, brow furrowed, and Vrook leans over to whisper to Zez-Kai. “The temple we found is similar in size to this Temple here,” and she gestures around with one hand before tucking both firmly behind her back, “and inside it was a… man, who referred to himself as Vitiate, Emperor of the Sith.” She can’t quite suppress a shiver when she says the name, wishes even more for the protection of her mask so she could close her eyes. Though maybe that would be worse.

“The Sith are extinct, Revan,” Vash says, and she almost sounds gentle. “They’ve been gone for a thousand years.”

“Not gone,” Revan says, shakes her head. “They’ve been in hiding, and they’ve built an Empire where we’re blind. They have a  _ fleet, _ Masters, and are continuing to add to it the longer we wait. Their Emperor - Vitiate-” and her voice catches on the name, and she grits her teeth, ignores the way Bastila, Carth, and the Chancellor all look at her with concern, “-he has plans to move on the Republic, though I don’t know when. He kept Malak and I in his temple and tortured us repeatedly, asking what the Republic and Jedi knew of him, why we were there, and I believe he wanted-” No. She can’t tell the Jedi Council how hard it’d been to resist the Dark Vitiate kept offering her, kept surrounding her in. They already distrust her, and in Vrook’s case, outright dislike her and are constantly looking for a reason to pull her back from her position. If they knew-

They can’t know. No one can know.

“Knight,” Vandar says, a quiet prod, but a gentle one at least, and she realizes she’d trailed off mid-sentence, eyes sliding away to stare into the middle distance.

Revan shakes herself. “It was… difficult,” she admits, mostly to give an excuse for her silence. “These aren’t the nicest memories.”

_ “Of course,” _ the Chancellor says gravely.  _ “If you need time to collect yourself…” _

“No.” Revan shakes her head firmly. “We don’t have  _ time _ for that, all due respect. Vitiate knows I escaped. I don’t know if he’s expecting me to warn you or not, but either way, we have to attack now, before his Empire gets any stronger. Before he can raise another threat against us that’s worse than the Mandalorians. The Republic must go back to war.”

For a moment, the Council chambers are filled with a thick, weighty silence, the Force so heavy with it Revan can barely breathe, and then:

“No.”

It’s Vrook.

“Revan, the Council put up with you disobeying us, taking Jedi to fight before we were certain war was the best course of action. Now you’ve finished that war and you want to begin another one? Whatever you saw out there-”

“You didn’t feel his power!” Revan steps forward, eyes flashing, unable to keep back the  _ anger _ his denial rouses in her. “You weren’t  _ there, _ Master Vrook,” and she barely manages to remember to add on the honorific, “you have no  _ idea _ what he’s capable of. Forget, for a minute, how much you don’t like me. You  _ know _ the enemies I’ve fought. I was always the top duelist and I’m stronger in the Force than most Jedi here.” She’s not bragging, and looking around the room she forces them all to acknowledge that fact. “I don’t think Vitiate carries a lightsaber. He doesn’t  _ need _ one. The things he could do with the Force - I couldn’t touch him. Neither could Malak. He was  _ toying with us.” _ Her chest is heaving, a little, her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides, and  _ Force take it _ this is why she needs a mask. “The Republic is in danger, Masters, far worse than the kind Mandalore the Ultimate posed. How many more times must I tell you about a threat to the galaxy and  _ be right _ for you to believe me?”

Her words echo in the room.

“If you’ll excuse me,” and it’s  _ Carth, _ speaking up, which shocks Revan enough the anger fades a little, “Bastila and I were the ones who first found Revan, in a ship unlike any I’ve ever seen. It wasn’t made by our factories. General Malak was unconscious and Revan was barely on her feet - she thought we were hallucinations created by this Vitiate.”

Revan twists to give the soldier a  _ look; _ she hadn’t wanted them knowing how much Vitiate had gotten into her head, damn it all.

“He’s correct, Masters,” Bastila says, though her hands are clasped tightly in front of her and she’s gone pale - Revan wonders, almost absently, if she’s ever disagreed with the Jedi Council before. “I believe Revan is- is telling the truth. Whether or not this man is a Sith, if he’s powerful enough to scare one of our best Knights, we should be concerned.”

“I know what the Dark Side feels like,” Revan says, low, holding Vrook’s eyes. “And if the Jedi won’t respond to this threat,  _ I will.” _

_ And the Republic will follow me, _ goes unsaid. When Revan glances over to Chancellor Cressa’s holo, he meets her eyes and nods, once.

There’s quiet for a moment, then Atris says, softly but harsh, “And how many more Malachors will this war have?”

Carth sucks in a sharp breath and Revan reels back a step, the words striking like a physical blow - she’s surprised to feel a hand press into her back briefly, almost steadying her before withdrawing, and when she glances to one side she sees Bastila discretely returning her hand to its former position in front of her. The unexpected support helps, and the sharp shock turns to anger, but before Revan can snap back, the Chancellor intervenes.

_ “If I may, I think I might have a solution,” _ he says, calm and stately as ever, and she greatly envies his emotional control.  _ “A small strike team, composed of members chosen by Supreme Commander Revan, due to her familiarity with the enemy we face, containing both Jedi and Republic soldiers, could be sent to this planet to gather data. If they bring back irrefutable proof of this Empire, I will bring it before the Senate. They have faith in the Supreme Commander’s skills and knowledge, as do I. The Senate will vote on our course of action, which may very well be beginning a war now, on our terms, with the hopes that it will end quickly. Does this satisfy the Council?” _

“If you will give us a moment,” Vandar says, beckons the rest of the Masters to him - they huddle around each other for a moment, speaking too quietly for Revan to make out their words, and she takes a few deep, shaky breaths, letting them out in a slow, controlled exhale, falling back on the breathing exercises she’d learned as a youngling in the creche. She has to get control back over her emotions.

Finally the Council seems to reach an agreement, stepping back and returning to their chairs. Vrook and Atris, noticeably, look annoyed and frustrated, but neither of them say anything. “We agree to this,” Vandar says. “If the Senate votes to go to war after receiving proof, the Jedi Council will follow.”

“Then I should go prepare,” Revan says shortly. “Chancellor, a pleasure as always. I’ll be in touch.” She bows to the Council, then turns on her heel and stalks through the doors before they can call her back, cloak swirling around her feet.

The Temple guardians are waiting for her, but Revan manages to ditch them by ducking through another room into a back path she’d discovered as a youngling, which she follows down to a set of rooms the quartermaster uses. She sends Bastila a quick comm on the way, tells her to meet Revan back at the entrance, then comms her soldier escort to warn them, and then squeezes her way through a vent (which is a much more difficult trick to do now than it was when she was six) and drops into a room storing pieces of armor, for Jedi and for the guardians alike.

She’s not supposed to be here, but she doesn’t intend to linger; she hunts through the shelves until she finds one of the guardians’ masks, snags it and presses it to her face to test the fit. It’ll work, she decides, though it’s hardly her old mask, and she’ll have to paint it red and black.

But it’s better than nothing.

She takes another route out to the main entrance, sees Bastila and Carth waiting by the speeders, talking quietly with the two soldiers.

The Temple guardians are nowhere to be found.

“What are you going to do?” Carth asks as Revan approaches. He doesn’t ask where she’d gone off to, and she appreciates that - the man has tact.

She takes a moment to consider his question. “I’m going to the  _ Vengeance,” _ she says, at last. “I’m going to talk to a few people I think would be useful for this scouting trip,” and not for the first time, she regrets the news she’d heard, of Qatya walking away from the Order without her connection to the Force. The young Jedi would’ve been a great asset against Vitiate. “The two of you should finish whatever business you have here, if any; you’ll be coming with me. As soon as Malak’s recovered, we’re going to go find the Senate’s  _ proof, _ and then I’m going to find a way to win this war.”

This is a war Revan doesn’t intend to lose. Even if she has to fight the Republic to win it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ..... i have a lot to procrastinate okay
> 
> this chapter contains a flashback to the battle for Onderon and well it's no Malachor but it's definitely something. also i'm pretty sure i'm gonna end up eating every single thing i said about this fic in the original author's note because Revan is really annoying like that. at least the ship tags hopefully??? won't change?
> 
> Revan needs _so much therapy._ This fic was supposed to give her therapy.
> 
> This fic is not going to give her therapy.
> 
> i'm enjoying reading everyone's comments!

“... and then I stormed out,” Revan finishes, and can’t help a grin as she takes in Malak’s expression. “If looks could kill, I’m sure I’d be dead by now.”

Malak chuckles, leaning back against the pillows. He’s been given one a private room in one of the nicer hospitals on Coruscant, and the doctors are keeping him here for a few more days despite the Jedi healer who’d come to work on his injuries. “You’d have been dead before you were ever Knighted,” he says, nudging her arm, and Revan rolls her eyes.

She’s sitting cross-legged on his bed next to him, cloak shed to drape over the back of the chair the nurse had brought in for her, newly-painted mask on the seat. The red and black and grey paint doesn’t look the same as _her_ mask, but it’s similar enough, and just having something covering her face, hiding her emotions, is a comfort. “Give me _some_ credit,” she says, “I didn’t start _really_ making Vrook angry until we started investigating the Mandalorians.”

Malak huffs, but he hums an agreement. “At least Chancellor Cressa believes you,” he says, returning to the topic at hand, and Revan nods.

“He commed me privately after. He said that while he believes me - and trusts that if I think we need to go back to war, I’m right - he doesn’t _want_ to throw the Republic into another war, and so the scouting mission is as much for his benefit as the Council’s.” She sighs, rubs her eyes with the heels of her hands, feeling unaccountably exhausted. “But he wanted to show his total support of me while working with the Council, which I appreciate. It’s hard enough getting them to listen to me when they know the Republic agrees with me.”

“It’s always politics,” Malak mutters. “But they worked in our favor this time. Who are you planning to take with us?”

Revan shrugs. “I’m going to let Carth choose the soldiers, and obviously Bastila is coming. If Qatya hadn’t been exiled-” and if the Council had wanted to punish someone for Malachor, it should’ve been Revan herself, as the plan was hers, even if Qatya gave the final order, “-I would’ve brought her, but with her gone I’m not sure. Maybe Kreyik?” Kreyik is one of the younger Jedi who’d followed Revan to war, a Rhodian who’s never been interested in command, preferring to quietly follow others.

“They’re a good choice,” Malak agrees. “Strong enough to defend themself against whatever we find, but good at following orders - they won’t run off on their own.” Unlike certain Jedi Revan is familiar with.

“I’ll talk to them about it tomorrow,” she says, twisting her fingers around one saber hilt in her lap. “I don’t like this,” she admits, more quietly, and feels a thread of _concern_ from him.

“Going back?”

She nods.

“We know what he can do now,” Malak says, but Revan cuts him off before he can say anything more.

“Do we really?” she asks, tightens her hand around her saber hilt. “We have _no idea_ how deep his resources are, how long he can sustain that level of Force use, not to mention what are his martial skills? We don’t know _anything.”_

Malak reaches over and puts his hand on top of hers, and she lets out a long breath. “Turn off your brain for a minute,” he says, and Revan has to laugh at that, because _as if._ “This is just a scouting mission, we’re not getting close to Vitiate. We’ll be fine.”

“How are you so calm about this?” Revan asks, dropping her free hand over his and hanging on tight. They’ve finally escaped, and now they’re walking right back into the nexu’s maw.

“I’m not,” Malak says wryly. “But I’m not overthinking it either.”

Yeah, okay, he has a point. She breathes in and out again, carefully controlled, manages a small smile. “I can’t help it. It’s part of being a master tactician.”

Malak gives her a _look,_ and Revan holds his gaze, bites her lip to keep from smiling, pretends she’s facing down Vrook in the Council chambers.

She’s still the one who cracks first. She always is.

Stomach aching with laughter, she flops down next to him in the too-wide bed. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she tells him, knocking their shoulders together, and by the look in his eyes when he returns her smile she knows he knows what she means.

“Me too,” he says.

They sit and talk for a little while longer, about nothing important, and then Malak’s nurse comes in and informs Revan visiting hours are over and she needs to _leave,_ and no he doesn’t care that she’s the Supreme Commander of the Republic Army and Navy, she’s not blood family, and there are _no exceptions._

On her way out of the hospital, Revan slices into Malak’s medical records and names herself his next of kin.

With nothing else to occupy her time and the sky over Coruscant turning dark, she takes a shuttle up to the _Vengeance,_ sends a comm to Kreyik informing them of the mission and asking them to be ready to join it in a few days, and comms Carth to tell him he has a week to choose a squad for their mission. It’s been a long day - the cruiser’s daycycles had been synced to Karath’s half of the fleet instead of Coruscant time, and so Revan’s been up for well over twenty hours at this point - but her mind is whirling, so after she discusses logistics with Admiral Jenn, she takes the turbolift up to the viewing deck.

No one ever comes up here - it’s a wide semicircle with sparse furnishings and a panoramic view of space, lights that Revan doesn’t bother to turn on as she crosses the room to the floor-to-ceiling window and sits down, leaning against it and pulling her mask off to sit on the floor next to her. She wraps her cloak around her and rests her temple against the transparisteel, stares out at the blackness of space, sparkling with stars.

She’s always liked places like these - high places, or spots with a view of space (not hyperspace, but space itself), where she can forget, for a moment, everything dragging her down, where she can revel in the taste of _freedom._ It helps her think.

Moments like these are the closest thing she has to peace these days.

She doesn’t know enough about Vitiate or his planet, and it worries her. She’d done her best to memorize details while she and Malak were captives, but half that information had slipped away like water during the escape. All she remembers from _that_ is her sheer desperation, attacking the guards with nothing but the Force, getting Malak free, finding their sabers, and then so much running. They’d snuck out of the temple, had made it into the forest, and had spent hours running through the trees, hiding - sometimes she’d had to half-carry Malak, despite being smaller than him - and then they’d stumbled onto the tunnel that led to the city. And from the city to the shipyard.

Vitiate had _known_ they were escaping. She’d felt his laughter in her mind when she snapped her guards’ necks with the Force alone, and the shadows had followed her until they were out of the tunnel. He hadn’t sent any of his Sith after them either, just troopers who were easy to kill.

The Emperor of the Sith had _let her go._

And she doesn’t know why.

Revan blows out a breath and leans more against the window; she’s exhausted physically, but her mind won’t stop wandering, and she’s never been good at shutting it off. Meditation might help, she thinks to herself.

Sunlight flashes golden off an incoming ship, like the sun on the towers of Iziz.

Iziz.

She’d meditated before the battle for Onderon, as her fleet jumped into the sector, kneeling on a padded mat in her quarters with her mind wide-open to the Force. She’d been studying the maps for days beforehand, had gone over every element of all four prongs of their strategy until none of them could find a flaw, and all that was left was to center herself until she was as cold and smooth as her mask. The Force had whispered of losses, of death, of pain, but she’s used to that by now, long since numbed to the silent screams. All they mean to her now is a herald of victory.

Revan orders a bombing of the walled city before her troops ever land. She’s split her forces, sent Alek and Qatya to the moon of Dxun to root out the deeply-entrenched Mandalorian camps from which their enemies are launching wave after wave of basilisk war droids while she herself breaks the Mandalorian occupation. The Mandalorians have been here for years, since before the Republic officially went to war against them, and they’re settled in. A victory here would ensure the rest of the sector falls into the Republic’s control and would rid the Mandalorians of one of their last strongholds. They still have a fleet, but the worlds in their beskar-firm control are dwindling one by one.

Really, she only needs to bomb one small area outside the city walls where the sewers are close to the surface, but Revan refuses to risk the Mandalorians catching wind of her plan, and besides, the Iziz Wall is famous for how defensible it is, for all its fortifications. So she drops bombs, and ignores the civilian targets that get destroyed. Collateral damage happens in war. (The Force screams, but the Force has been screaming for years, now.) She sends the majority of her troops to assault the Wall from the opposite side, where the Mandalorians’ defenses are thickest, and she takes a small strike team down in a shuttle.

They’re shot down, of course, durasteel screaming and crumpling as the shuttle’s nose plows into the ground despite the pilot’s best efforts. The cockpit deadlock-seals itself and Revan doesn’t have the time to worry about their pilot, who’s probably too injured to fight anyway; she rushes her strike team out and overloads the shuttle’s engines before leaping free of the resulting explosion. It leaves her ears ringing and shattered bits of wood scrape her neck and the sides of her face where her mask doesn’t protect, but the Mandalorians will have seen it and assumed whoever they shot down died.

Unfortunate - she’ll have to requisition more shuttles again. Pretty soon the Senate is going to stop approving her requests, she’s fairly sure.

Revan leads her strike team through the jungle, following a nearby river. The crystalline blue sky is stained with smoke and fire from the bombing, and fighters soar and twist through the air, attempting to shoot down the basilisk droids before they can land among her forces attacking the main gate. Iziz’s anti-aircraft turrets fire endlessly, a harsh percussion countering the steady softness of her own footsteps, and her focus narrows to the rhythms, to her harsh breathing, to her senses on full alert for any unfamiliar Force-signatures in the area. Sweat rolls down her face behind her mask, stinging as it hits the cuts; a rock catches strangely under her foot and her ankle twists and throbs dully as she ignores it and continues to run.

She’s gotten very good at ignoring pain.

The exposed sewer entrance is easy to see, the ground on fire around it, a gaping hole that leads into a wide stone corridor. Revan can feel the heat of the flames through her armor as she leads her team up to it, but she doesn’t let that stop her - her forces are dying to give her this time, and she needs to make it to the main gates while there’s still soldiers left to take advantage.

Her team - a handful of Jedi without their own commands and a squad of elite soldiers who have been training to keep up with Jedi - drops down into the sewers a few at a time, Revan at the lead, and she ignites her white saber and holds it up to serve as a light. Here, under the ground, the air is cooler and the sounds of battle are muted; if it weren’t for the familiar coldness sliding along her muscles and mind, a sort of battle focus she’s developed over the years, Revan would almost be able to forget they’re fighting to free a planet.

But there are people at her back, and she’s all-too-aware of the constant deaths echoing into the Force, and once again the weight of victory falls onto her shoulders. 

There aren’t any guards in the sewers. Maybe the Onderonian resistance had managed to thin the Mandalorians’ numbers enough, or maybe they’re just that confident in the Wall; either way, Revan and her team make their way through the sewers in near-silence, the only sounds being their breathing and footfalls and the crackle-hum of her saber. She’s memorized the route through the sewers to the entrance set in an alley near the main gate, and they make the journey as quickly as they can, aware that every second down here is another death above.

The ground vibrates beneath Revan’s boots as she reaches the ladder, and she climbs as quickly as possible, pushes the hatch up and climbs out.

Immediately she’s hit with the sounds and smells of battle, the acrid tang of smoke in her nostrils, the taste of iron between her teeth, and shouts and screams and a hundred voices belting out a Mandalorian war song in her ears. It’s one of their victory songs, Revan can tell - she’s heard enough of their singing over the past three years for it to feature in her nightmares, she knows the difference now between what they sing, even if she doesn’t understand the words.

They think they’re winning. They haven’t yet realized Revan is here. They probably assume she’s on Dxun, because Alek is, and usually Revan and Alek fight on the same battlefields, with Qatya or one of her other Jedi Generals leading the other fronts (because none of their battles have had a single front in over a year - Revan refuses to commit her forces like that). 

Revan’s mouth curls into a grin behind her mask. The Mandalorians are in for a surprise.

There’s an explosion on the Wall above and to Revan’s right - thermal detonator, probably - and a Mandalorian soldier comes crashing into the ground in front of her, his helmet coming off with the impact. His eyes go wide when she sees her mask, and though he’s clearly dazed, is struggling to breathe, she can’t risk him warning his allies.

Her violet saber ignites for only a half-second. It’s long enough to burn a hole through his forehead. (And another light flickers out.)

The gate controls are up on the Wall itself. The ramp leading there is heavily guarded, even with the Mandalorians believing all the Republic forces are outside.

Revan is a Jedi, and the non-Jedi with her have jetpacks. They have no need for ramps.

She flips in midair and pulls her sabers out as she’s falling, twists and lands on one knee, and four Mandalorians fall dead in an instant. For a heartbeat that seems to stretch into infinity, the battle pauses, the air filled only with the sound of more lightsabers igniting - and then a Mando screams _jetiise_ and the ones she’d killed clatter to the ground and it’s like time starts again.

The battle passes in spurts and flashes; the soldiers with her make their way straight to the gate controls, a pair of Jedi with them for protection, and Revan gathers the Force into her palms and throws waves of Mandalorians off the Wall to land among her troops below, twists and dodges and deflects blasterfire, and she kills and she kills and she kills, sabers no more than blurs of light. 

Most of the foot soldiers don’t wear more than a couple pieces of beskar. It’s an old, familiar weakness. Revan cuts through them like they’re made of flimsi.

In battle, she is not a person; she’s a storm, a hurricane, a force of nature, unstoppable as the ocean, all the power of a bolt of lightning contained and controlled and channeled. The Gates of Iziz open and her troops rush in like the tide, the battle frothing around her like foam against the beach. Blood has splashed onto her boots and her robes are stained with soot and ash, and the air is charged with adrenaline and fury and a glorious thrill. Revan seizes hold of all of it, pulls it into her and lets it fuel the storm inside her, and behind her mask she _smiles._

(Revan has always felt the freest in combat.)

 _“Revan,”_ a tinny voice says in her ear; one of her lieutenants. _“I’ve located their general. Sending coordinates now.”_

She’s been waiting for that.

A signal goes out and three Jedi detach themselves from the fighting, follow Revan as she leaps from the Wall to the rooftops, the HUD in her mask automatically calculating her route across the city. Down below is a mass of humanity, soldiers grappling with each other in the close quarters, blaster bolts searing walls and shattering windows and cracking doors. Iziz is occupied by civilians, Revan remembers distantly; these are their homes and livelihoods both armies are using for shelter. Right now, she can’t bring herself to care.

She soars past an open window as she jumps the gap between two rooftops, and she can hear the all-too-distinctive sound of a child crying within, can feel their bright splashes of fear. In moments she’s too far away, but the sound and the feeling stick with her anyway, the sound of sobs and the utter _terror_ mixing with screaming men and blasters and grenades and all of it turning into a relentless cacophony of death and pain and war. It echoes in her ears with the harsh gasps of her breathing and the thudding of her heartbeat and suddenly she can’t hear anything else.

The Mandalorian general has set up her command on a rooftop, in what was formerly a garden. She likely thought she’d be in no danger from aerial attack, expecting Revan’s forces not to risk orbital bombardment on a city of this size. (Revan has bombarded Mandalorian-held cities before, but not ones so full of civilians.) The first thing Revan notices, as she throws herself across the last gap before the general’s rooftop, is the small shield generator set up to protect the command center from energy weapons.

The second thing she notices is that the entire edge of the building she and her three other Jedi are about to land on is mined.

She’s not even sure how she knows. It’s the light of an emergency flare flashing off glinting metal just barely visible; it’s the sudden _scream_ of danger in the Force that has her twisting her body to one side in midair and throwing one hand out for a desperate _push_ that throws her trajectory off, causes her to hit and tuck into a roll just beyond the mined perimeter.

Just behind her, so close she can _feel_ it, pieces of debris crashing into her back and blasting past her, the rooftop explodes. And three Force-signatures vanish before she can take a breath.

They don’t even have time to scream.

And Revan stands alone against a fully armed and armored squad of ten Mandalorians and their general, Jetna Ordo, one of Mandalore the Ultimate’s top officers.

“Welcome, Revan,” Ordo says - she’s helmetless and grinning, looks far too confident. “I’ve been waiting for this. Mandalore will reward my clan and I well when I bring him your mask.”

Revan toggles open a line to her entire army in the vicinity. “All forces, converge on my location, _now,”_ she orders, and then she’s forced away from her comm to deflect a burst of blasterfire, has no time to close the channel. _“Bastard._ You’ll pay for their deaths.”

Ordo looks far too amused. “Do you really mean that?” she asks. “You’ve sacrificed far more of your own to win against us before. It’s what makes you such a good enemy to test ourselves on - you fight like we do. No holds barred, living for the glory of victory.”

“I am _nothing_ like you,” Revan snarls, and her eyes find the shield generator, and she doesn’t let herself pause, just hurls her mainhand saber at it in a fluid, practiced motion, all the force she can muster behind it. The violet blade arcs through the air and cuts through the generator, the rosy shield flickering and fading out; Revan throws her hand out and wills the hilt back to her palm, leaps forward and rolls on instinct just as her fingers curl around the metal. Fire bursts across the roof where she’d been half a moment ago and as she regains her feet Revan thrusts out with the Force, sends two Mandos slamming into the far side of the roof - also mined.

A bright burst of plasma across her vision and those two soldiers aren’t getting back up any time soon, if they’re even still alive, and Revan ducks and dodges and twirls her sabers without letting herself think about the motions. Beskar is saberproof but even the blastweave fabric between the pieces will catch on fire if exposed to the heat from another Mandalorian flamethrower. Revan just has to stay in the middle of their group - and Ordo shoots out a grappling line and Revan backflips over it, shutting her sabers off and snapping them back on as she lands, the blades driving directly into the Mando who’d gotten grappled and yanked in instead of her - and they won’t be able to use their most dangerous weapons without hurting each other.

Ordo isn’t smiling anymore. There’s a sharp, cold anger in her eyes that Revan relates to far too well.

A hand latches onto her shoulder and Revan _throws_ herself forward, sabers spinning for the weak points of her enemy - no armor, part of her brain notes, but moving with the kind of athleticism of someone used to dodging - and then there’s the utterly unexpected sound of a lightsaber flaring to life, a bright yellow beam, and abruptly the smoke-darkened skies of Onderon disappear.

Revan is standing in a dark room, the darkness of space behind her, both her sabers bearing down on Bastila Shan, and the girl looks _terrified._

Revan freezes in place, can’t move for the longest moment, and Bastila quickly stumbles back, grey eyes wide. “Revan?” she asks, voice shaky, and Revan sucks in a shuddering breath, looks around her.

She’s on the _Vengeance,_ in orbit around Coruscant. _Five things you can see,_ a voice in the back of her mind murmurs, and Revan picks out her lightsabers glowing (deactivates them and forces her arms down to her sides), a Republic insignia barely visible in the shadows on the far wall, a meditation mat on the floor, _Bastila,_ the distant pinpricks of starlight through the viewscreen. Breathing exercises kick in automatically, and she closes her eyes, focuses on the flow of oxygen through her body, turning all her senses inward, deliberately relaxes her muscles one major group at a time.

“I didn’t realize I was asleep,” she says finally, opening her eyes again and returning her saber hilts to her belt. “Are you alright?”

Bastila still looks nervous, but she nods. “You were shifting and talking in your sleep,” she says. “I thought I would wake you up.”

Revan smiles, wry. “Next time, just call my name a few times. I’m a fairly light sleeper.” _Next time?_ She doesn’t exactly make a habit out of letting people catch her sleeping. “That’s something you’ll want to be careful with around anyone who’s been in combat much.” She crosses the room back to the window, bends down to pick her mask up off the floor where she’d left it, weighs it in her hand for a minute before deciding to leave it off.

Bastila nods, is quiet for a moment as she returns to the meditation mat laid out on the floor - she must’ve come up here looking for some solitude - but she just sits down, cocks her head to one side thoughtfully. “What were you dreaming about?” she asks. “I’ve found it can help to talk.”

Revan stops, for a moment, unable to keep the surprise off her face. No one ever asks about her nightmares except Malak, and she hates talking about them - hates showing anyone that weakness. But then again, she’d _attacked_ Bastila, the girl deserves an explanation. She can suffer showing a little weakness to set that right, can’t she?

Revan sighs, drops to sit down on the steps near Bastila’s mat, rubs at her eyes. “The battle for Iziz,” she admits. “You woke me up as I was reliving the fight with Jetna Ordo and her lieutenants.”

Bastila folds her hands together in her lap, eyes keen in the low light. She really is rather pretty, Revan finds herself thinking, and the thought is a shock to her system. She’s not supposed to find people pretty, that’s Malak’s thing. “I’ve never been in a battle, but I’ve heard stories,” Bastila says. “The Council discouraged us from speaking about your victories, but the younger padawans at the Enclave would pass around bootleg holos of your fights.” Her voice goes bashful and she’s blushing a little when she admits, “I watched a few of them myself.”

“Such a rebel,” Revan says dryly, but she softens the statement with a small smile. “You grew up on Dantooine?”

“I did. I spent much of my time in the Enclave - I find myself missing the familiarity of it, but there’s something exciting about being out in the galaxy.” Bastila looks much more relaxed here, in the semi-darkness, than she has any other time Revan’s seen her. “I think, after having seen your interaction with the High Council earlier, that I understand why Master Vrook disliked speaking about you.”

Revan snorts. “He’s never liked me,” she says. “But you disagreed with them to defend me, I’m proud of you. Spoken like a true Revanchist.”

Bastila… _blushes._ “I wouldn’t go that far,” she says quickly. “But I’m beginning to see why so many followed you to war.”

“Are you now,” Revan murmurs, a little surprised. “When we first met, you informed me the Council is always right.”

“I did not,” Bastila says hotly, and alright, Revan has to admit she likes the younger Jedi, when she’s not suffocating every emotion she feels. “I said- Well- What I _meant_ was, you were too harsh on the Council, assuming they didn’t listen to you at all.”

“You also brought up Malachor,” Revan says, unable to stifle the smile playing on the edges of her lips.

“And I _apologized_ for that, I-” Bastila stops abruptly, eyes going wide and the frustration draining from them. “You’re teasing me.” The sentence almost sounds like a question.

Revan grins fully, gets to her feet and offers Bastila a hand. “Guilty as charged,” she says. “Come on, I want to see what your lightsaber skills are like before we head out into the Unknown Regions.”

“It’s nighttime,” Bastila protests, but she takes Revan’s hand anyway and gets to her feet.

Revan shrugs. “I’m not getting back to sleep any time soon,” she points out, “and you’re clearly awake, and this way no one will bother us. It’s not like we’re breaking any rules.”

Bastila’s eyes flash. “I am _not_ afraid of a little rebellion,” she snaps, and Revan smiles, tugs on the other woman’s hand.

“Good. You’ll fit in well. Welcome to the Revanchists, Bastila Shan.”

~

Bastila has skill, Revan has to admit. She spins her dualsaber through a series aggressive attacks with a fluid grace that’s impressive - a dualsaber is notorious for being more difficult to master than any of the basic forms they learn as children, and it’s more dangerous, given how much easier it is to cut off your own leg if you forget where the second emitter is pointing. The kind of dedication Bastila must have, to have mastered the weapon so soon, reminds Revan of her own months of ceaseless practice at Jar’kai, until it felt more natural than only fighting with one saber.

With more experience, they’d be a well-matched pair, but as it stands Bastila isn’t familiar with any of Revan’s tricks, and doesn’t seem prepared for anything outside of the traditional forms.

And Revan’s habit of turning her sabers off and on again during fights is certainly not traditional.

After three losses in a row, Bastila’s eyes are flashing with clear frustration, and she refuses Revan’s offered hand, instead pushing herself back to her feet on her own. “Ready to call it a night?” Revan asks, casually, wiping the sweat off her forehead. She’s not wearing her mask for this, and that’s nearly uncomfortable, but it would’ve been strange to put it on for a spar when she’d just been talking to Bastila with her face bare.

Bastila doesn’t answer, just ignites her dualsaber again, and this time, instead of sinking into the defensive stances she’s favored over their past spars, she launches straight into an attack.

Revan barely has time to get her sabers back off her belt and up to block before the dualsaber is crashing into her defenses. There’s a light in the younger Jedi’s grey eyes and the Force flows around her like a storm, and this - Revan _knows_ this. It’s the same way she’s always fought in battles, hollowing herself out for the Force and her emotions, letting her sabers move of their own accord as she analyzes her opponents. Bastila doesn’t have that same analytical bent, Revan can tell - she’s missing weaknesses in Revan’s defenses - but the Force sings around her with that same furious _power_ and Revan doesn’t know if she should be awed or afraid.

Bastila’s footwork is sloppy, but she’s lithe enough to compensate for it, body twisting with the motions as she cuts her saber at Revan’s legs - Revan jumps and flips in midair, brings her boot to kick Bastila’s face, and the younger Jedi twists her saber in her hands and brings one glowing gold blade to crash into Revan’s shin - only for it to bounce off without a scratch. Bastila frowns and Revan winks as she lands and lifts her sabers again. “A little gift from the Mandalorians I defeated,” she says, and she can see the exact moment Bastila realizes every piece of Revan’s armor - greaves, bracers, and a round chestpiece - is made from beskar. “They weren’t using it anymore.”

“Clever,” Bastila comments, and then she lunges forward again and Revan doesn’t have the extra breath to speak.

Her sabers flash in a blinding whirl as she meets Bastila’s ferocious attack with her own, which isn’t exactly the soundest strategy, but Revan hates having to fall back on defense, hates not having the upper hand, hates the idea of _losing._ The only person she ever loses to anymore is Malak and even then she can’t stand the bitter taste of defeat, like ashes in her mouth.

Revan has a good handle on Bastila’s style of attack, she thinks, and she knows what to do, what Bastila won’t expect.

She shuts off her sabers and lunges forward, grabbing the hilt of Bastila’s dualsaber with both hands and leaning all her weight into it. Inches it backwards, closer and closer, and Revan’s nearly ready to let go with one hand, twist it and put a saber hilt to Bastila’s throat when the other woman’s stance shifts-

A boot lands in the pit of Revan’s stomach, just below her armor, knocking all the air from her lungs, and for a half-second she relaxes her hold on Bastila’s saber, instincts urging her to curl around the exposed area. And then a wave of raw Force slams into her, sends her crashing to the floor, one saber dropped, her other hand flopping uselessly to the side as she sees stars. Her empty hand comes up to protect her face - fat lot of good that’ll do her - and then Bastila is kneeling on her chest, one hand on the floor by Revan’s head, her saber hilt - deactivated, thankfully - resting against Revan’s throat, her knuckles brushing the underside of Revan’s chin.

“Kriffing hells,” Revan coughs out, chest heaving, the floor blessedly cool against her sweat-sticky skin, and she drops her empty hand to the ground and lays there, limply. “That was _impressive.”_

Bastila pulls back, moving off Revan’s chest to sit on the floor next to her, an uneasy look in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says, and Revan can’t do anything but stare for a moment. “The Masters always scolded me for letting my frustration get the better of me-”

“Bastila,” Revan says, cutting the girl off, “what you just did? Was incredible. You fought the same way I do in battles.” She pushes herself up to a sitting position, absently summoning her abandoned saber to her empty palm so she can hook both hilts to her belt. “Harness that frustration, use it, let the Force control your body. You react faster that way.” She smiles, even though she’s going to be sore for a couple days from hitting the floor so hard. “Working the Force into your fights instead of just using your lightsaber is good too, it makes you harder to anticipate.”

Grimacing a little, she pushes herself to her feet, stretches out her muscles before offering Bastila a hand, which the girl takes after a moment. “That isn’t exactly what I remember my instructors saying,” Bastila says.

Revan shrugs. “When you’re fighting a war, you do whatever helps you win. I didn’t win the Mandalorian Wars because I listened to a bunch of Jedi who refused to fight for justice.”

“No,” Bastila says, more quietly, “I suppose you didn’t.”

Revan smiles, a little softer. “You’re a good Jedi, Bastila, and I’ll be honored to have you at my side when we face down the Sith.”

And Revan means it. Maybe, with Bastila standing beside her and Malak, Revan will be able to remember what it feels like to be invincible.

~

The Sith Lord Vitiate, Emperor of the Sith Empire, immortal destroyer of Nathema and doom of the galaxy, sits on his throne and stares at the red and black mask resting in his lap. It’s the only possession the young Knight, Revan, left behind when she fled, though of course Vitiate had ensured that the mask wouldn’t be waiting with the Jedi’s lightsabers. The mask is _important_ to the young woman, Vitiate had discovered that early on. Her mental shields had taken the same form, in her mind, though he’s not certain she’d known that. But he’s spent a great deal of time in her head, knows her better than she knows herself, and every time he left and returned, that blank mask would be staring at him, battered by years of war.

But masks are easy enough to break. Vitiate has never worn one himself - not a physical mask. He has no need for such trifles. The fact that young Revan does, to the point of _relying_ on one… well. Vitiate will take that mask from her, force her to see herself, to _know_ herself, and she will do the rest of the work for him.

It will be the sweetest irony to destroy the Republic with the very weapon it forged to protect itself.

Revan’s mask pulses faintly with power - she’s imbued it with so much of her sense of self over the years it’s nearly as attuned to her as her lightsabers. Vitiate traces one hand over the scratched red paint, knows that wherever the Knight is, now, she will _know_ and feel fear. The Force is a massive well of power within and surrounding him and he lets it flow through his fingers as he brushes his thumb over a small dent in the upper corner of the mask.

 _You know what’s waiting for you in the dark,_ he lets the Force whisper. _You know there is only one way to defeat it._

Vitiate had always planned to lure Revan in and let her go. Escape was not difficult, after all - she merely needed to make the deliberate choice to wield the Force itself as her weapon, to kill, brutally and without mercy, with nothing but her own will. Not such a difficult thing for the woman who destroyed a planet, but it is far more _personal_ when you’re staring into the eyes of another sentient being as you make the choice. A part of him is surprised at how long it took Revan to make that choice, given what she did against the Mandalorians, time and again. But then again, perhaps some part of her sensed the precipice even as she took the last step off.

His Dark Council - pathetic, the lot of them, but they have more promise than the rest of his Sith, even if they spend most of their time squabbling with each other over shards of power like children desperate for scraps - had expressed a great deal of… disbelief when Vitiate ordered them to let Revan escape. None of them, for all their vaunted wisdom, has realized what Vitiate has known from the beginning:

Revan will come back.

Her desire to be the savior of the galaxy will drive her, and through her own actions, the galaxy will fall, and she will _break._

And Vitiate will have control over the strongest weapon the Jedi have ever created.

Vitiate smiles as he contemplates all the ways he will use Revan, once she kneels at his feet, and the air around his throne turns cold as ice.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no excuses for this
> 
> remember that PTSD tag guys? please remember that PTSD tag
> 
> so this chapter was not supposed to happen like this, and you were definitely not supposed to get this flashback so early. i had a whole plan, with more mask symbolism and Revan giving people a little speech about sacrifice and whatnot, but.... that didn't happen. and now you get beamed directly into the events of Malachor V. anyway, next chapter we finally get out to the Unknown Regions, which was supposed to happen this chapter, but for obvious reasons, it didn't.

Malak is released from the hospital after four days. Revan is wearing her mask and cloak when she meets him at the entrance; the hospital takes up an entire block in a busy part of the city, and as she stands outside, leaning against her borrowed speeder, she can hear whispers as the people walking by notice her. Her new mask looks different, of course, a different shape, but she’s painted it into the same patterns, and with a hood up it’s nearly the same. Close enough that between that and the outfit and the distinctive twin sabers, people know who she is.

Revan hasn’t been on Coruscant since she was named Supreme Commander. But her masked face is on all the propaganda for the war; they’d even had her record a brief skit once, after her promotion, asking people to enlist. For all that she hardly knows anyone here anymore outside the Jedi Temple, every single one of the billions of people on Coruscant knows her name.

Their eyes on her remind her of one of the reasons she hadn’t wanted to come back.

She sees a few people bringing out cameras, holorecorders, and she knows that within minutes half of Coruscant will know she’s here. There’s already enough of a crowd starting to form that speeders are pulling over, and Revan can feel a headache building behind her eyes. Won’t Malak hurry up and get discharged?

She should’ve brought an escort after all.

“... she’s a legend, she won the war,” a voice says, loud enough Revan can hear, and she turns her head to look for the source without thinking, acknowledging the crowd’s existence for the first time.

“She  _ destroyed _ a  _ farming planet!” _ another voice answers. “You saw what the Galactic Anti-War Coalition released on the Net-”

“You can’t keep listening to GAWC, they’ve been against her from the beginning,” the first voice says dismissively. Revan finally picks the two speakers out - two young Twi’lek men engrossed in their argument who have as of yet to notice that she’s looking at them, although everyone else around them has. “I bet they fabricated those pictures just to make her look guilty.”

“They’ve been right about everything else.” The pink-skinned Twi’lek looks and feels genuinely upset in the Force. “She murdered her own people in cold blood!”

Revan straightens.

The crowd’s whispering gets louder, and someone finally smacks the two Twi’leks, and they turn to look at Revan for the first time since she noticed them talking. The green one - the first speaker, with intricate tattoos on his face, chest, and arms - has gone pale, although there’s something like excitement flickering in his eyes.

The other stiffens, and his dark eyes are full of defiance. “Revan the butcher,” he says, spits the title out at her feet. And it’s hardly the first time she’s heard it - it’s popular among the anti-war crowds, who like to say the Republic should’ve made a treaty instead, should’ve tried for  _ peace talks, _ as though the Mandalorians would’ve listened - but she’s never had someone say it directly to her face before. Never had someone say it with so much venom.

Revan is very, very grateful for the way her mask hides the expression crossing her face.

“An interesting title,” she says, mildly, crossing her arms over her chest. “Usually people stick with  _ Supreme Commander _ or  _ Knight, _ though I admit the first is a bit of a mouthful.” Someone chuckles and she notices, in her peripheral vision, at least three holorecorders and comms pointed at her. “You seem to have a bit of a problem with me.”

“People might not talk about it,” the man says, sharply, “but we know what you’ve done.  _ I _ know. You can hide behind your mask all you’d like, but someday all those sacrifices you make will be personal. You won’t be so smug then.”

Revan feels something cold in her chest, but her voice is steady when she says, “I’m afraid you’ll have to be a little more specific. I’ve done a lot of things over the past three years, including saving the Republic from the Mandalorians.”

The man’s hands clench into fists, his lekku curling into tight knots, and he shouts,  _ “I had family on Malachor!” _

The crowd goes dead silent; Revan locks every muscle in place and is so, so thankful the crowd can’t see how her face goes pale. The Force is echoing with this man’s pain and anger, and she’s the easiest outlet for it, the easiest one to blame. Especially when she’s right in front of him.

“Jos…” the green-skinned Twi’lek says, shaken, clearly surprised, and puts a hand on his- friend’s? arm.

Jos pulls away, steps out of the crowd of people to face her, and Revan barely even notices the doors to the hospital opening. “My family has owned a farm on Malachor Five for generations. I came to Coruscant to study law. And  _ you _ decided that their lives didn’t matter, so long as you were lauded a  _ hero, _ so long as you got to win. And you won. Are you  _ happy _ with yourself?” His face is twisted with grief and rage.

Revan sucks in a sharp breath, arms slowly falling to her sides, and she grits her teeth, struggles to fight back her anger. The world has narrowed to her and the man in front of her, who puts the weight of an entire planet of deaths on her shoulders. “I did what I had to do,” she says, her voice low. “You have no idea what it’s like, having to make that decision, having to live with it after.”

“You’re right about that. I don’t,” Jos spits. “Because it’s a choice I would never make, in a million years. Because I  _ care _ about other people’s lives.”

Revan’s vision goes  _ white. _

(“How can you sit back and  _ do nothing _ while millions die?” she cries, head twisting back and forth to stare at the Council. She’s twenty-two and the Force is screaming at her to  _ save them, someone must save them, they’re  _ **_dying,_ ** and the Council sits here and does nothing, sits here and orders her to  _ return to your quarters, Knight, _ sits here and-

“Control your anger, Knight,” Vrook says, “it is not the Jedi way to let your emotions rule you.”

“It’s not the Jedi way to let  _ innocent people burn while we have the power to stop it!” _ Her chest is heaving, hands balled into fists at her sides, and for once Alek doesn’t try and soothe her. “I’m  _ going to help, _ and none of you can stop me. I’m going to take  _ every damn true Jedi in this Temple _ with me, and we are going to crush the Mandalorians, we are going to  _ save lives, _ because someone has to lead them, and if you won’t,  _ I will.”) _

“And do you think the Mandalorians would’ve just left your family alone?” she asks, scathing, nearly derisive. “Do you think they would’ve just decided to give up  _ burning planets _ because one person cares?” She laughs, and it’s cold, harsh, and there’s no amusement in it at all. “Do you think I  _ enjoyed _ leaving my entire life behind, Jos? Do you think I took some perverse pleasure in seeing how many I could kill? Your family would’ve died  _ either way. _ At least this way, their deaths meant something. At least this way,  _ no one else has to suffer.” _ She can barely catch a breath, hands clenching so tight they’re nearly numb.

“I am a  _ Jedi. _ You have no idea what that truly means. No idea what it feels like, to  _ feel _ a world die. You think this hurts you, hearing the news of your loved ones’ deaths, weeks after it happened? I  _ lived it. _ Every single death that battle caused, I  _ felt it. _ They screamed inside my head, their pain became my pain, and when I go to sleep at night I see the planet crack through their eyes.” She can’t stop another laugh, jagged-edged, and tears well up in her eyes behind her mask, spill onto her cheeks. She can’t stop them either, can only be relieved no one can see them. “So don’t presume to tell me how much I do or don’t care about lives. I care far more than you could  _ ever _ comprehend, because while you only carry your own pain, I carry the galaxy’s.”

And she turns away, crosses to her waiting speeder and drags open the door with hands that won’t stop shaking.

“Revan,” she hears an achingly familiar voice call, and Revan can barely keep herself from crumpling as Malak hurries over to her. “Let’s go, okay? Let’s get out of here.”

She nods, slides into the driver’s side as Malak sits down next to her, eyes  _ so _ concerned. “Why’d you take so long, anyway?” she tries to tease, but it comes out in a trembling voice, and he reaches out to her in the Force, pushing comfort at her. She can feel his worry.

“Let’s get out of here,” he repeats, gently, instead of responding in kind like he usually would, and Revan manages another nod, starts up the speeder.

“Wait!” someone calls, one of the people peeling away from the crowd, rushing up to the speeder. “Jedi, wait. Is that true, can you really feel it when people die?”

“Of course it’s true,” Malak says, and Revan’s grateful - she doesn’t trust her voice. “The Force is in every living thing. When something’s in pain, it echoes into the Force, and we can feel it. When something dies…” He shakes his head a little. “Now, please excuse us, we have important business to get to.”

Revan doesn’t wait for a response, just guns the speeder’s accelerator and pulls away from the street.

She drives back to the shuttle at a breakneck speed, but she can’t even enjoy the feeling; her vision is blurred from tears and her hands are shaking so bad she nearly jerks the speeder into a building. By the time they get back to the shuttle she’s practically hyperventilating and Malak has to guide her inside. He sits her down on the floor, says something - she barely registers it.

She’s not in the shuttle anymore.

~

She’s sprinting through the halls of the  _ Vengeance, _ cloak trailing behind her; the battle for Malachor V, the trap she had painstakingly set up to finally bring this war to a close, had started without her. She’d been out of the system, elsewhere in the sector, dealing with a Mandalorian scouting party, when she’d gotten a comm from Qatya, only two words long:  _ they’re here. _ She’d rushed her way back as quickly as she could, but it’d still taken too damn long.

Thankfully Alek -  _ Malak _ (he’d changed his name after Dxun, told her he no longer felt like the Jedi Knight who’d gone away to war) had chosen to stay with the fleet. He’s barking commands across multiple comm channels, sometimes followed by something from Jenn or Karath, Revan’s two fleet admirals; when she switches to the channels her pilots use, all she can hear are calls for aid, desperate reports of losses, of struggling against the basilisk war droids. Reinforcements are on their way from elsewhere in the sector, should be here in minutes, and that’s the only consolation she has.

She should’ve  _ been here. _

Revan makes it onto the bridge from the hangar in record time, comes to a stop by the holotable - there’s a projection of Malachor V, of both their fleet and the Mandalorian one, and on the far half of the table, a projection of Qatya, below the planet’s surface with the technician she’d selected to create their secret weapon. The Jedi is standing, face impassive, arms behind her back, watching the projection of the planet and the fleets, dark hair done up in its usual coiled braids, the same flower pin nestled among the black strands even in combat.  _ “You’re late,” _ she says.

It’s mostly a jest. Mostly.

“Reinforcements are on the way,” Revan says in response, loud enough everyone on the bridge can hear, and there are several sighs of relief. “I’m sorry I’m late, though it looks like you started the party without me.”

“Blame Mandalore for that one, not me,” Malak says, rubs a hand over his head and grimaces as three of their fighters blink out on the holo. “Damn it.”

Revan swears under her breath, looks closer at the holo. “Send Sword Squadron around to attack Mandalore’s flagship, draw some of their fire away,” she orders, and Malak nods, talking into his comm again.

_ “Revan,” _ Qatya says, and Revan looks away from the projection of the battle, raises an eyebrow the other Jedi won’t be able to see past the mask.  _ “You repaired the  _ Vengeance’s _ turbolasers, right?” _

Revan nods, eyes flickering back to the fleets. What does that have to- oh.

“Admiral,” Revan calls, “how many people are on that light cruiser?”

Admiral Jenn eyes the indicated ship for a moment, frowns as she understands why Revan’s asking. It’s risky, and it’s a bit wasteful, but sacrifices are how you win battles. People lose because they aren’t willing to sacrifice enough, because they don’t see to use their own forces as weapons. “I’ll have everyone who can abandon ship,” she says, ever the pragmatist. Revan likes her. She was quick to pick up on Revan’s tactical style, and she’s never argued her decisions, not even when Revan explained about the trap they placed here. “Where do you want them positioned?” She’s been listening to Qatya as well.

Revan studies the battle for a moment, watches one of Mandalore’s capital ships flash a brighter red briefly. “Give me the technical readout on that battleship, the wounded one on the edge of their formation. How exposed is its hyperdrive?”

There’s a moment of silence, technicians scrambling, and then someone says, “Its rear deflector shields are weak. An explosion of the calibre you’re thinking would pierce them and deal significant damage to the engines and the hyperdrive, more than likely causing an overload and a critical systems failure. If we’re lucky, it’ll take out another of those battleships near it when it goes.”

“Good.” Revan’s technicians know her strategies now too. “Keep harassing the  _ Nusolus _ until our bomb is in position.” She may not know much Mando’a, but she’d managed to figure out the name for Mandalore’s flagship: the  _ Invulnerable. _ Ironic, considering how close it is to the most deadly trap Revan’s ever set. “I don’t want them to pick up on what we’re doing.”

It only takes a few minutes to evacuate most of the light cruiser’s crew, to fill it with tanks of extra fuel and explosives. Revan’s navigators ease the  _ Vengeance _ out in front of their formation, just enough to give a clear shot at the medium-sized ship as it eases dangerously close to the Mandalorian battleship’s engines.

“Fire,” Revan orders.

There is no sound in space, not properly. But the shockwave from the implosion rocks the  _ Vengeance _ \- Revan and Malak and their various officers just sway with the motion, used to it - and Revan changes her focus from the holo to the viewscreen to watch the bright blue and orange gouts of flame and energy ripple through the wounded battleship’s rear section. The technicians are right; the explosion causes a cascade failure, and the capital ship tears itself apart, vomiting flame and shrapnel into the nearby ships (severely wounding another battlecruiser) and taking out no few basilisk droids as it self-destructs.

Qatya, on the holo, shows no sign she even noticed, though Revan knows she has. It’d been a good catch, and a good suggestion. It gives them a bit of a breather as the Mandalorian onslaught slows for a few minutes, taking stock of the damage. (Revan imagines Mandalore standing on the bridge of the  _ Nusolus _ in the same way she’s here, the two of them giving orders and watching the battle from above. Sometimes she thinks she has more in common with him than with anyone else - or almost anyone, she amends, looking at Malak.)

Their reinforcements jump into the system shortly after, arrayed partially around the Mandalorian fleet’s flank, and more fighter squadrons join the fight, and Revan watches on the holo, occasionally giving orders, as the tide slowly, slowly, starts to turn in their favor. They lose a capital ship themselves, but destroy another one to match, and their fighters outnumber the basilisk war droids now, if only by a small amount.

Then the hail comes in.

“It’s the  _ Nusolus,” _ one of her communications people tells her.

“Patch them through,” Revan says, briefly minimizes Qatya’s holo to make room on the holotable. There’s a brief pause and then a holo of Mandalore the Ultimate himself comes into view.

_ “Revan,” _ he says.

“Mandalore.” She inclines her head, a measure of respect the man deserves - as much as she hates him, he’s matched her well for battle after battle. That ends here, today, though he doesn’t know that yet.

The man returns the gesture.  _ “I have a proposition for you,” _ he says, and Revan frowns behind her mask.  _ “I challenge you to single combat. During the battle, our ships maintain a cease-fire.” _

Single combat with Mandalore the Ultimate… It’s a risk. The man didn’t come to lead all Mandalorians without being a force to be reckoned with in combat, and Mandalorians don’t accept surrender. If she takes this offer, one of them is going to die today.

And that’s why she knows she has to do it.

Malak shakes his head when she glances over at him, making a pointed glance at the planet. They could just continue to force the Mandalorian fleet inward, towards their trap, but what if Mandalore escapes? No. Revan needs to cut the head off this serpent, and then she can burn the body and salt the ashes.

“I accept your challenge,” she says, the words ringing out, and she imagines Mandalore is smiling. “We’ll meet on the planet’s surface - neutral territory.”

Mandalore agrees, and the details don’t take long to work out. They’ll each bring a small escort with them, and the orders for the cease-fire went out at the same time. Both fleets are still, now, hanging in space. Word has spread about the duel, and Revan can feel the tense excitement in the air and the Force as she, Malak, and a squad of soldiers step into the hangar.

“You don’t have to do this,” Malak says quietly, as they climb into the shuttle.

Revan doesn’t look at him, stares into the middle distance, hands behind her back, and takes a deep breath to steady herself. “Yes, I do.”

Mandalore doesn’t take off his helmet when they meet, in a grassy plain between two hills - it’s fallow farmland, she thinks, noting the buildings in the distance - and she makes no move to remove her mask. They’re both faceless symbols that an entire army, an entire culture, rallies around. Revan respects that.

It doesn’t mean she won’t destroy that culture.

The wind whispers through the grass, catches the edge of her cloak and sends it streaming out behind her, and Revan pulls it off, hands it to Malak. She doesn’t want it getting in her way, after all. Mandalore’s men spread into a wide semicircle, and Revan’s soldiers follow suit, forming a perimeter around the two combatants. Her soldiers may not be Mandalorians, but they understand what’s happening here as well as anyone.

“May the best warrior win,” Mandalore says, the words ringing with the cadence of ritual, though she suspects this isn’t the language they’re meant to be spoken in.

Revan doesn’t speak, just bows.

She draws her sabers at the same time Mandalore pulls his blaster, firing several shots in the space of a few breaths; she deflects them all, sends multiple back at him, and though they’re just absorbed by the beskar, the force of impact staggers him a little. She leaps forward, brings both her sabers down hard on his shoulders - the blades bounce off the armor and she pushes both hands forward, sends him skidding back with the Force. Mandalore draws a sword from across his back, twirls it in one hand, and charges.

The blade is made of pure beskar.

For several minutes, there’s no sound except the hum of Revan’s sabers, the clash of armor, the heavy harshness of their breathing. Revan blocks Mandalore’s sword above her head, cuts at his neck; he ducks and charges forward, and a knife skids across the half-hidden armor plate on her chest. She brings her knee up into his crotch, which does very little except give her a bruise she’s sure she’ll have for weeks, and then she’s slamming into the ground on her back, one saber trapped above her head. Mandalore drops all his weight onto her chest, and she’s sure he’s grinning at her, all sharp canines like a predator.

He lifts his beskar sword from where it’s been pressed against her lightsaber and Revan seizes the opportunity, brings both hands up and throws the Force against his chest, lifting him off her and  _ back, _ and she leaps to her feet the instant the weight pressing her down is gone.

“Nice trick,” he says.

Revan doesn’t answer.

Mandalore shoots out his grappling line and it catches her offhand, but she’s prepared: she drops one saber and braces herself, grabs the line and yanks, hard. The line cuts into her wrist even through her bracer and she grits her teeth behind her mask, but Mandalore stumbles and then swears and releases the line.

He’s both bigger and stronger than her, she notes, shaking off the line and slipping into a vaguely defensive stance, beginning to circle. He’s smart, too, and certainly better-trained at hand-to-hand than she is, and if he gets her pinned there’s only so much she can do. She won’t be able to use the same tricks on him twice, and with his armor he doesn’t have many weaknesses that are easy to reach.

Mandalore charges and she engages him again, and this time he has a blaster in one hand and his sword in the other. He’s smart enough not to use his flamethrower - starting a grass fire wouldn’t help him in any way - and that’s a small blessing, but Revan struggles to focus on both the flashing of his sword and the blaster bolts that come out of nowhere from close range.

One catches her in the shoulder from nearly point-blank range, and pain blossoms across her left side, dizzying her, and she stumbles and her white saber falls from her hand and then Mandalore is bearing down on her, catching her remaining saber in a bladelock, and she can hear murmuring from her troops, can feel bright  _ fear _ from Malak as her own saber is forced closer and closer to her neck, and-

No.  _ No! _

Revan  _ will not lose. _

She can’t.

And there’s fear and anger burning in her bones, fear of what will happen if she doesn’t win this fight to the death, the fight she agreed to even though she didn’t  _ need _ to, anger that Mandalore has destroyed worlds and ravaged entire peoples and  _ killed his own for standing against him _ and now he faces her like they’re equals, like he’s anything like her, who walked away from everything she knew to save lives. And there’s pain sparking across her shoulder, her arm on fire from it, and she can feel the fear from her people. She is their legend, their hero, and she’s moments away from dying on a beskar blade because she isn’t strong enough, because she is in pain, because she’s  _ weak. _

_ Turn your weakness into a strength, _ one of her teachers tells her as a child in the creche.

Revan snarls defiance into the air and grabs onto every ounce of fear and pain and anger and  _ pulls. _

And strength explodes in her.

The Force is a fire, is a storm, electricity in her veins, and it’s easy, it’s so, so easy to push Mandalore back, to gain space with a few wide slashes, and she summons her white saber back to her hand and hurls herself forward. Mandalore drops his blaster, punches her in the face, and though the mask absorbs most of the blow she feels something  _ crack _ in her cheek and there’s more sparks of pain, and Revan takes those, too.  _ Turn your weakness into a strength. _

He’s strong. But she’s  _ fast. _

Her mouth tastes like blood and Revan sets into Mandalore’s defenses like a whirlwind, forcing him to use his own armor to block as much as his blade. She forces him backwards a step at a time, closer and closer to his own people, and there’s sparks flying in the air from her sabers on his armor, and Revan can nearly smell his fear.

Good. Let him taste a little of what he’s done to the galaxy.

She backs him up until he’s less than a meter from his own half of the circle, and brings both sabers at him in a heavy slash. He catches them on his sword, training against her with both hands on the hilt, and for a moment nothing moves, and she thinks nothing breathes.

Then Revan slips just a little to the side and turns off her sabers.

Mandalore staggers at the loss of pressure and, quick as a striking snake, the Force boiling in her blood, Revan whips her sabers up and presses them against the base of his neck, emitters aiming downward at his chest, the only weak spot in his armor.

“I yield!” Mandalore gasps.

Revan speaks for the first time since setting foot on Malachor V.

“There is no yielding in a duel to the death.”

And she ignites her sabers.

There are cheers, she knows. She turns her sabers off again, just long enough to let Mandalore’s body drop to the ground, and she drops to one knee and tears the helmet off the man’s head, lifts it into the air. She knows everyone in both fleets has been watching, knows they’ll be listening, and behind her her soldiers are cheering still but they fall silent as soon as she speaks.

“Hear me, Mandalorians!” The battlefield goes dead quiet again. “I have claimed Mandalore the Ultimate’s mask in a duel to the death. Do you doubt that I won’t do the same to you all? I have beaten the best of you, and I will not stop until your fleets are in shambles, until you bend your knees in surrender to me. I am Revan, and this I swear: I will not stop until I have crushed you all as completely as I crushed your leader!”

And she hurls the helmet to the ground.

The Mandalorians who formed half the circle rush her all at once, but the Force still flows through her, a cresting wave of power, and she dodges, sabers flashing on and off as she stabs them into weak points - none of these soldiers have as much beskar as their leader. Her own troops and Malak leap into the fray as well and within moments the Mandalorians are dead, though five of her own are as well.

Necessary sacrifices.

Revan takes Mandalore’s helmet with her as she and Malak and the remains of her escort return to the  _ Vengeance. _ The space battle has started up again, the cease-fire shattering the moment she’d given her speech, and the bridge is a hum of activity, orders being shouted.

Revan’s forces still outnumber the Mandalorians, but her enemies are fighting with a ferocity they’ve never shown before. Suicide flights take out two of her capital ships in one massive explosion, killing thousands of people in the blink of an eye, and the  _ Vengeance _ takes a nasty hit. Despite her victory over Mandalore the Ultimate, they could very well lose.

“Did you really have to piss them off?” Malak snaps.

“I’m not going to lose,” Revan responds, sharp,  _ determined. _ “All ships, press the Mandalorian fleet into Malachor Five’s gravity well. I don’t care what it takes.”

Because she still has the Mass Shadow Generator.

The push is agonizingly slow. The Force is filled with death, and their losses are  _ staggeringly _ high, more than Dxun and Onderon combined, and nearly two-thirds of their fighters are destroyed by the time the fleet is in range. The  _ Vengeance _ is the only ship that’s hung back, powerful turbolasers targeting any Mando ship that tries to flee as her capital ships box them in, her smaller ships and fighters filling in the gaps.

“Qatya,” she asks her friend’s holo. The Jedi is still standing in the same position she’s been in since the battle’s start. “Are they in range?”

Qatya leans forward, adjusts something, and on the holo of the planet and the fleets, a shockwave ripples out, over and over again. It covers the entire Mandalorian fleet, and Revan nods in satisfaction.

Good.

“Supreme Commander,” Admiral Jenn says, looking up from the projection, uncertainty crossing her face for the first time Revan can remember, “over half our fleet is going to be caught in the pulse if we activate the weapon now.”

Revan draws in a breath, holds it, lets it out, and straightens from where she’s been leaning over the holotable. She remembers the first time she’d given the order to bombard a city from orbit, utterly destroying it but killing nearly the entire occupying Mandalorian force in moments. Jenn hadn’t questioned her orders then. She’d been lauded as a hero, as a master tactician, for the victory.

She remembers the mantra she’d chanted to herself, over and over again, that night, as she stared into the blankness of her mask in the mirror and clung to the edges of the sink so she didn’t shake apart.

“Sacrifices are necessary in war, Admiral,” Revan says, and paces away from the holotable to stand in front of the viewscreen, a solitary hooded figure, cloak stirring a little with the movement. “Qatya?”

There’s no answer, but Revan doesn’t need one.

She can feel the wave building in the Force as the Mass Shadow Generator activates, a hum under the surface of her skin, tension freezing her solid, and then:

The first pulse goes out.

And the planet cracks like an eggshell.

Hundreds of thousands of people die in the first second as the ground vanishes beneath cities and homes, green light shining through the ruptures. Most of the planet’s population is dead by ten seconds in. Most of them don’t have time to scream. The Force  _ twists _ as millions of lives are simply  _ gone, _ stars blinking out all at once, an echo where before there had been a symphony, and it  _ burns, _ and then Revan doesn’t even have time to think about them because the gravitational field reaches the fleets.

And oh, now the screaming begins.

Revan stares out the viewscreen unseeingly as her mind erupts with  _ agony, _ with terror, as ships are torn apart, dragged down towards the planet, and she can feel them screaming in horror, fighter pilots and Mandalorians in their basilisk droids and  _ Jedi, _ all the Jedi on board her own capital ships, crying out into the Force -  _ save us, this isn’t supposed to happen, help us, please, please- _

It’s over in minutes. Revan can’t hear herself speak over the echoes in her mind.

She won.

~

_ “Revan,” _ someone is saying, and Revan gasps in a breath, reaches up and yanks her mask off her face with trembling hands, throws it away from her and pushes onto her knees, hands on the floor, curling forward and trying not to retch.

“Alek,” she gasps out, despite the fact that he hasn’t gone by that in months, “I was  _ there, _ I was-”

“It’s okay. It’s okay, you aren’t there,” Malak says, cutting her off, his hand resting on her back, rubbing gentle circles. “It’s not Malachor.”

It takes too long for the words to register past the echoes in her mind. Someone else, not Malak, is telling her to  _ breathe, _ slowly, and Revan  _ hates _ the idea of anyone else seeing her so weak but so follows their instructions anyway. And it does help; after a few minutes, Revan can finally take a deep breath, and the tears she wasn’t even aware of have stopped. She’s still shaking, her entire body cold, and someone wraps a blanket around her shoulders and that helps.

“Force,” she breathes out, finally, and lets herself collapse against Malak’s side. They’re in some kind of unused storage room, she realizes, looking around, and they’re not alone - leaning against the wall a little ways away is Carth Onasi, watching her. She can’t manage to meet his eyes. “Malak, how-”

“I carried you,” he says, a little sheepish. “This was the closest place I could get you to, I didn’t think you’d want anyone else to see you.”

“You were right. Why is Carth here?” And that comes out sharper than she means, and she winces. 

“I was in the corridor when General Malak brought you in,” Carth says, calmly, not looking  _ offended, _ as such, by the question, but his face has definitely tightened, though there’s still concern in his eyes. “He needed someone to bring a blanket and some tea - that’s what’s in the thermos, by the way, you should drink it - and I’ve seen my fair share of flashbacks. I know how to handle them.”

Revan sighs and slumps more, reaches for the thermos Carth is indicating, pops the top and takes a sip - it’s hot and it feels good, and she can’t help but notice it’s her favorite of the blends Malak used to always force her to try. The heat helps with the shaking, and while she feels as drained as she used to after a major battle, at least she feels somewhat like  _ herself _ now.

“What  _ happened, _ Revan?” Malak asks, and she tilts her head to look up at him, though she can feel his concern. She wonders, abruptly, if he  _ felt _ the flashback through their half-bond, if he saw everything she did. Probing his presence in the Force she can feel he’s nearly as shaken as she is. “You know people were recording that, it’ll be all over the HoloNet by tomorrow.”

“Probably sooner,” she says, manages some kind of wry chuckle. “I was waiting for them to discharge you and a crowd started to gather. I heard a couple of them arguing - this one man was angry, and I didn’t really  _ intend _ to get drawn into conversation with him… He said he had family on Malachor.”

Malak grimaces, and after a moment Revan sighs and sits up on her own, wraps the blanket more tightly around her shoulders and takes a drink from the thermos. “He accused me of not caring about  _ lives, _ Malak.”

“I heard that part,” he says, rubs at his forehead. “There’s nothing we can do about it now. Are you feeling better?”

_ No, _ Revan wants to say. But Carth is in the room, even though he’s clearly aware he’s intruding, and for all that he saw her in the grip of the flashback, she refuses to show any more of a weakness than necessary. “I’m fine,” she says instead, pushes to her feet and summons her mask to her empty hand. She can tell Malak doesn’t believe her, and neither does Carth, if the look on his face is anything to go by.

“You know,” Carth says, abruptly, as Revan is pulling the blanket off her shoulders - she misses the warmth immediately, but she can’t exactly go walking through her flagship wearing it, “I was at Malachor, myself.”

Revan raises an eyebrow, though she’s not entirely surprised. Nearly the entire fleet had been there, and she’d done some research in her downtime the past few days - Carth is a very decorated soldier. “And what did you think of it?” she asks, doesn’t put her mask on yet.

Carth looks thoughtful, standing up straighter and reaching out to take the blanket from her. “I don’t know,” he admits. “It won us the war, and we needed that; I know what kind of condition our fleet was in, we weren’t going to be able to sustain the damages much longer. But our losses…” He shrugs one shoulder, meets Revan’s gaze. “I’m not sure anything could be worth that, especially when so many of them were civilians.”

“Sacrifices are necessary in war,” Revan murmurs, the cadence of those words all too familiar. She flexes her hand around her mask, stares at it for a moment, shakes her head.

“That’s what Saul said.” Carth sounds  _ tired. _ “Honestly, I try not to think about it.”

Revan can understand that.

She lifts her mask to her face and secures it again, rolls her shoulders and sighs. “I need to go talk to some people. I- appreciate your help, Carth, and I hope you’ll keep this quiet.”

Carth cracks a smile, which surprises her. “Don’t worry, Revan, I won’t go around telling people you have feelings,” he says, more amused than anything else. Is he-  _ teasing her? _

“I  _ don’t,” _ she insists. “At least, not the kind that can turn into a weakness.” Behind her, Malak is weirdly still.

Carth’s smile widens, and he  _ winks. _ “And that’s why you wear the mask,” he says. “You’re welcome for the blanket.”

And he walks out of the room.

Revan is left staring after him, a strange feeling in her stomach that she can’t quite shake and has no hope of understanding, a flush on her cheeks completely at odds with the memory of screams still shivering through the back of her mind.

(But she won. And that makes everything worth it.)

(Doesn’t it?)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> extra long chapter! will probably be the last chapter until later in the week as i move states tomorrow.
> 
> FINALLY, we have some ~romance~, or at least the seeds of it. and then, because it's me, everything turns angsty again. Revan ain't doing too hot yall.
> 
> also, you may have noticed the tags update; i've decided i am going to be including my Exile in this after all. she'll show up in a few chapters for the first time and have an important role to play as well.
> 
> i hope you enjoy, and let me know what you think! <3

Revan takes the  _ Vengeance _ out to the edge of the Outer Rim, where the majority of her fleet is patrolling. Her scouting team is ready - Carth had chosen the soldiers carefully, and both Bastila and Kreyik have confirmed they’re as prepared as they can be - and she finds that she’s itching to get back out into the galaxy, to  _ do _ something instead of sitting around discussing logistics and politics. She’s never been good at sitting still, even as a child in the creche - meditation hours had been torture. She’d learned to use the Force to calm her restlessness, as she got older, and these days meditation can even help to calm her, but she’s never completely outgrown the constant need for movement.

The  _ Vengeance’s _ navicomputer still has the coordinates of the mystery planet logged in it, and so Revan takes it and an escort and jumps them to part of the sector that’s tentatively under friendly control - after all, Korriban is all but abandoned, only visited by scavengers and sometimes brave archeologists, but it’s known, and not outright hostile. Vitiate’s planet isn’t more than a few hours in hyperspace away, and Revan needs to stop by Korriban anyway, so she gives the order for the fleet to settle in and informs Admiral Jenn she’ll forward whatever they discover back to her for report to the Chancellor.

With the details worked out, Revan makes her way to the hangar; Malak is already there, has been supervising the packing. The ship they’re taking is a Defender-class starship, small enough to easily maneuver by any patrols, but large enough that four Jedi, a squad of Republic troopers, and a couple weeks’ worth of provisions can fit mostly-comfortably inside.

“How’s it looking?” she asks Malak quietly, walking up beside him. He’s in his customary dark red, and although he’s still standing a little stiffly, he seems mostly healed from their ordeal. Revan herself has been fighting through minor aches and pains, which a doctor had helpfully told her could be avoided if she’d just submit herself for more treatment. She doesn’t have  _ time _ for more treatment.

Malak smiles a little at her. “They’re loading the last of the supplies now, and Kreyik and Bastila are already on board. We’ve been waiting for you to finish up with the admiral.”

Revan sighs, adjusts her cloak “Well, I’m here now,” she says. “Let’s get going.”

Carth pilots the ship, once they take off, and at first Revan occupies herself by going through their supplies - even though she knows there’s already a full inventory on her datapad, if she bothered to look - but that doesn’t take more than half an hour, and then she’s left with nothing to do but pace. Carth has already briefed the soldiers, and she’d talked with Kreyik a couple days ago, and none of them need her going over information they already know. That’s a surefire way to get them all thinking too much.

It’s just-

She doesn’t  _ want _ to be going back here. Revan would rather have just stopped off at Korriban and dug through the ancient tombs until she and Malak found the map. Part of her considers it; she could go to the cockpit, tell Carth to pull the ship out of hyperspace, turn around, set course for Korriban. They could dig up the Rakatan map, send the coordinates to the fleet’s navigators, and be at the Star Forge within a couple of weeks. It’s not like she  _ needs _ the Republic’s approval to fight Vitiate.

But not all of the fleet would stay with her, she knows that. And she knows, too, that the Senate wouldn’t take well to her stealing their ships and people and going to war on her own. They’d try to force her to stand down, she’s sure, and when she refused, they’d fight.

And while she  _ will _ fight the Republic if she must, she’d rather not. She’s sacrificed so much to save them; she doesn’t really want to turn around and conquer them herself.

(She could. She knows their strategies by heart; hells, she wrote half of them herself. And she’s  _ good _ at making speeches, at convincing people to join her, and she’s their hero. People would join her,  _ planets _ would join her.

Maybe it would be easier.)

But no. Revan has given nearly everything she has to the Republic. They  _ owe _ her their support.

She tries to sit and meditate for a while, and at first that works, but the further they go through hyperspace the more she starts to feel a familiar cold in the Force, and she drags her mind back to herself almost immediately, shivering. Maybe it’s just that after spending a month surrounded by his power she’s more attuned to it, but she doesn’t understand how the Jedi haven’t sensed Vitiate before now.

With nothing else to pass the time, Revan clears herself out a space and runs through several different hand-to-hand katas, mostly to stretch her muscles, because there’s not really room for her to get her sabers out with this many people on board. The workout has a calming effect, actually distracting her from the feel of Vitiate’s power, and by the time the ship leaves hyperspace she almost feels ready for it.

They won’t be getting near Vitiate this time, of course. Revan remembers where the temple is, and she knows four Jedi won’t be enough to face him. They’d just all end in chains, and Carth and his men dead.

But maybe they can do some damage while they’re here.

Revan stands behind Carth in the pilot’s seat as he expertly brings their starship towards the massive blue-grey planet looming in the viewscreen; he presses a switch that flicks on the cloaking device recently installed and the ship shudders briefly around them before pressing on again. They’re approaching from a different angle than Revan had taken when she fled - she can see part of the Sith fleet in the distance, but it seems smaller than she remembers.

Well. It’s hardly like this is the only occupied planet the Republic hasn’t discovered, and it’s hard to have an Empire of only one world. The rest of their fleet must be elsewhere in the galaxy.

And isn’t  _ that _ a reassuring thought.

It reminds Revan of how little she really  _ knows _ about the threat she’s facing now. When she’d gone to war against the Mandalorians, she’d studied what little she could find about their culture, had poured over countless holos and records of their battle tactics, their forces, their capabilities. When she’d finally taken the field to face them, she’d known how to counter them, she’d known them nearly as well as she knew the Republic.

All she knows about Vitiate and his Empire is that he is far from the only Sith among them, even if he’s the most powerful by far; that they have an army and a fleet, both equal if not bigger than what’s left of the Republic fleet after Malachor; and that Vitiate’s own power is so great she’ll never be able to fight him on her own. It’s too little, and she  _ hates _ that, hates that she can’t prepare herself.

Maybe this scouting trip was a good idea after all. 

They land midday in the planet’s rotation, though it’s hard to tell; the place is as gloomy as she remembers, even though it’s not actively raining. The sky is slate-grey and the air is damp and heavy against her skin, the thin fog tasting strangely pure as she breathes in. Further away from the temple as they are, the planet itself doesn’t feel so Dark - it’s almost beautiful, Revan finds herself thinking, and she trails one gloved hand along the bark of a nearby tree.

Behind her, her squad is activating several combat droids they’d brought along to protect the ship while they’re away from it. They’ve organized the rest of their supplies into several packs the soldiers pull on. Kreyik offers to help, quietly, and is told  _ no, you Jedi fight better if you’re unencumbered. _ Revan hears their quiet conversation, hears Carth murmuring to Bastila further off to her left, but it all feels distant.

Malak is at her side, and when she turns to look at him, dropping her hand back to her side, he smiles at her, although she thinks he looks pale, the blue tattoos on his head darker than normal. “It’s funny how not being tortured makes it easier to appreciate the landscape.”

Revan can’t help laughing a little at that. “Did you read my mind?” she asks, only half-teasing, and she sends a mental nudge at him, feels the disquiet he’s trying to cover with humor.

“Yes, actually,” he admits, and she laughs more, enough that Carth’s and Bastila’s conversation cuts off. “I was curious.”

Revan smiles at him, knows he can tell even if he can’t see it, then sobers a little. “Are you ready for this?” she asks.

“Are you?”

She sighs, but before she can answer, Bastila walks up on her other side. “I assume you have a plan,” the younger Jedi says, and Revan nods.

“We need information,” she says, notices Carth nodding as he comes up as well. “Part of what let me fight the Mandalorians so effectively was knowing them, their culture and their strategies. Without that, we’re just blind in the dark.”

“You mentioned a city,” Carth says, considering. “We could scan for technology, comm signals, try and make our way there.”

Revan nods. “Let’s do that,” she decides. “The scanning, at least. We could send some of the frequencies back to the fleet, let them work on the encryptions.”

So they set up camp around the ship, the first day, and one of the soldiers Carth brought - a man named Denon - turns out to be a technician, so he messes around with the scanning equipment they’d brought until signals come in.

It turns out there’s quite a few frequencies in use with encryptions none of them are familiar with, and Denon notes down the details - Revan isn’t paying much attention to the discussion. She hears something about a large concentration of tech a few days away on foot that’s probably the city, and then Denon mentions something else much closer, only a day or so away.

_ That _ catches her attention, and when Revan presses for details, the man explains it’s not a big enough area to be a city; it’s likely some kind of stronghold or permanent encampment, more than likely protected. But less dangerous than infiltrating a city based around a culture they don’t know anything about.

“I want to check that out first,” she tells her team, and they make plans to head that direction the next morning.

By the time night falls, they have a good idea of what they’ll be walking into the next day, and Revan volunteers to take first watch, ignoring her squad’s protests. To her surprise, Bastila volunteers as well, and when Revan walks off to sit on a rock at the edge of the firelight, the other Jedi follows.

“You didn’t need to volunteer,” Revan says, looking over at the other woman. “I would’ve been fine on my own.”

Bastila shrugs a little, not quite looking at Revan’s mask. “I would’ve been awake for some time anyway, and we haven’t had much opportunity to speak recently,” she says, hesitates for a moment and then carefully sits down next to Revan. “And you seem- Unnerved.”

That’s one way of putting it, certainly. The darker it’s gotten, the harder it is to avoid looking at the shadows curling along the ground like mist, dancing every time the firelight flickers. More than likely, it’s just a trick of the light, but-

The Force feels cold, and Revan shivers involuntarily, all too grateful for her mask. She can close her eyes, grit her teeth, without anyone knowing.

“Revan?” Bastila asks, voice gone soft, and Revan forces her eyes open again, determinedly focuses on scanning the forest for movement, trusting the Force to warn her of anyone approaching.

“I’m fine,” she says, after a moment, manages to sound nearly normal. And she  _ is. _ Mostly.

_ (You know what waits for you in the dark, _ something murmurs in the back of her mind, a coldly-familiar voice, and she shivers again and forces it back.)

Bastila makes a noncommittal noise, doesn’t seem convinced, but she doesn’t press. For a moment, she’s silent, then: “I can feel his presence,” she says, nearly a whisper. “I see now why you had to challenge the Council - how did you ever stand it here, on your own?”

Revan doesn’t try to force a smile - after all, Bastila won’t be able to see it. “I wasn’t alone at first,” she says quietly. “Malak makes everything easier; he always has. When we were prisoners, they would let me see him during the- torture sessions,” and her voice shakes just a little, the words bringing back memories of Malak bloody and limp, strapped to a table, as shadowy, hooded figures paced around him, sometimes hitting him with lightning, other times drawing small daggers along his body. Revan tightens her hands into fists, swallows hard, unable to stop herself from seeing the look in his eyes when she refused to answer a question and they punished  _ him _ instead. “Damn it,” she mutters, turns away from Bastila abruptly.

She feels more than anything else Bastila turning towards her, reaching over to grip her shoulder, tightly. “Revan, look at me,” Bastila says, in a surprisingly low, firm voice. “Take off your mask.”

Revan doesn’t want to. She can’t show anyone this kind of weakness,  _ especially _ not Bastila, and what if some of the soldiers are still awake - but she finds herself reaching up anyway, pushing back the hood of her cloak and carefully pulling the mask off, setting it to the side on the rock. She turns to face Bastila as best she can, eyes flickering over the other woman’s face - there’s no way of hiding how pale and haunted she feels now, she knows. But Bastila doesn’t look disgusted, or pitying, or shaken by Revan’s lack of confidence.

Instead, she looks  _ stronger. _

“I know I’m not Malak,” the younger Jedi says. “I’ve seen the strength of your bond with him - I could never hope to usurp that. But I’ve also seen that he’s struggling as well, and I suspect you don’t want to worry him any more than necessary.” Bastila’s right; Revan nods, though she doesn’t say anything. If she can’t  _ help _ Malak, the least she can do is avoid making things worse for him. “You are not alone, Revan,” Bastila says, sounds nearly fierce, and Revan feels a strange warmth in her chest at the words. “I am not Malak, but I  _ am _ here, and I promise, my shoulders are stronger than they look.”

For a moment, all Revan can do is just- stare. In the flickering firelight, Bastila’s clear grey eyes shift through a hundred different hues Revan hadn’t even known existed before now, and they’re filled with absolute certainty, unwavering even when the other Jedi blushes faintly. “I- thank you,” she manages, voice hoarse, although she’s not sure why. “I’ll remember that, Bastila.”

“Be sure you do.” Bastila’s voice is soft again, like a caress, though still with that deadly-firm undertone that turned her words into a near order. Her hand falls from Revan’s shoulder to her forearm, and without really thinking Revan shifts and takes Bastila’s hand in her own. The Jedi’s cheeks go a dark pink at that, but she doesn’t pull away. “Revan…”

Revan swallows, mouth unaccountably dry. The Force feels so-  _ warm _ around her, humming with encouragement, and for the first time in months it feels like the weight of command, of protection, has been lifted. She feels… free, almost, and there’s that same dizzying, swooping feeling in her stomach as the time she’d climbed to the roof of the Senate Tower as a child, had stood on the very edge overlooking the long, long fall and spread her arms, only the wind holding her still.

_ Crack! _

Revan leaps to her feet and whirls, one lightsaber hilt in her hand, at the sudden explosive noise - it’s just a log in the fire popping from the heat, but the moment has been shattered, and she abruptly can’t even look in Bastila’s direction. It feels like all the fire’s heat has infused itself into her cheeks. She swipes her mask up with her free hand, quickly secures it against her face, licks her lips and forces something like her normal voice through her throat. “I’m going to- do a sweep of the area.”

“A smart idea,” Bastila agrees, carefully neutral, though her voice sounds a little strangled too.

They don’t talk for the rest of their shift, but there’s an echo of warmth in Revan’s chest whenever she looks at the other woman, and it’s still there when she curls up in her bedroll (next to Malak’s) and closes her eyes to sleep.

And maybe that warmth shields her somehow, because for the first time in a long, long time, Revan doesn’t dream.

~

In the morning, they get a bearing on the stronghold’s location, pack up camp, and set off. In the (grey, foggy) light of day, the planet doesn’t feel so cold, the shadows don’t feel so heavy. Bastila is walking next to Kreyik; she looks up, after a moment, and as soon as she realizes Revan’s looking at her she blushes and looks away so quickly she trips over the thick undergrowth.

“I’m going to go scout ahead,” Revan announces, abruptly, and grabs Malak’s arm and tugs. “Come on, Malak.”

“We don’t both need to go,” he says, but she sends him a sharp mental jab through the Force and he makes a face. “Alright, fine.”

Revan lets go of him and darts off through the trees, until she’s at least a couple hundred meters away from their main group, and then Malak catches her again and turns her to face him. “Okay, what’s so important you had to drag me off?” he demands.

She stands there for a moment, feeling less sure of herself suddenly, and then blurts out, “How do you know when you like someone?”

Malak… stops, for a moment, shock and confusion filling the Force around him. “... what?” he asks, and Revan blushes and looks away, although she knows he can’t see. He probably can somehow tell anyway. “If you  _ like _ someone?”

Revan kicks a piece of bark on the ground, watches it skitter into a tree and bounce off rather than look at Malak’s face. “Yeah,” she says. “You know,” and she gestures vaguely with her hands.

There’s a moment of silence.

“Revan,” Malak finally says, forced patience in his voice, “we are literally  _ klicks _ away from Vitiate, surrounded by an empire of Sith, and you’re asking me about  _ romance?” _

When he puts it that way… “Shut up about the Sith for a minute, Malak,” Revan says, irritated - he  _ knows _ she doesn’t know what the hells she’s doing with romance. And how is she supposed to focus on anything when she keeps getting distracted by Bastila? “I’m having a  _ crisis. _ This could affect the mission!” Part of her is aware she sounds more like her eighteen-year-old self than a twenty-five-year-old war hero, but, well-

She still can’t make heads or tails of what  _ happened _ last night.

_ “Vitiate,” _ Malak says, over-enunciating every syllable. “Honestly, you have the  _ worst _ timing. Why did you have to discover attraction  _ right now?” _ He shakes his head, and although he sounds annoyed, there’s something fond curling into the Force around them too. “Come on, we should do some actual scouting.”

“I almost kissed Bastila,” Revan admits, and then freezes, the words shocking her just as much as they clearly shock her best friend. She  _ had, _ she realizes. If the fire hadn’t startled her…

What the  _ hells _ is she thinking? She doesn’t have time for this, none of them do.

Malak opens his mouth. Suddenly, she doesn’t want to hear what he has to say.

“Scouting,” she says, decisively, turning on her heel and striding off into the jungle.

She can hear Malak hurrying to catch up with her. “Hang on, wait,” he says, “what happened with Bastila?”

“Nothing  _ happened,” _ Revan says, ducking beneath a low-hanging branch, reaching out into the Force briefly to search for people. She feels nothing but their scouting party and a surprising amount of animals. “We just talked. This isn’t one of your soap operas, you  _ schutta.” _

Malak huffs, and she can  _ feel _ rolling his eyes at her. “Oh, yeah, just like none of your battle strategies were ever inspired by those awful cop shows.”

“That was  _ one time,” _ she snaps, letting her annoyance filter into the Force. Honestly, she’d thought he’d finally forgotten about that. “And I didn’t see  _ you _ having any better ideas, and we won, didn’t we?”

“Sure,” Malak says. “But it was still from your cop show. Which means  _ this,” _ and suddenly he’s in front of her, stabbing one finger into her chest, “is  _ definitely _ going to be one of my  _ romantic dramas.” _

“Soap operas,” Revan mutters. Malak doesn’t look deterred in the slightest, eyes dancing. “Everyone in those makes  _ stupid decisions _ and never talks to each other, I’m absolutely not that kind of idiot. Even if I was in a relationship. Which I’m  _ not, _ and I don’t have time for, as you very well know.”

“It’s about the  _ pining,” _ Malak says under his breath, as he always does when they have this conversation. Revan ignores him. “We can’t go to war right away anyway, and even then - we won’t be at war forever, Revan. You shouldn’t dismiss the idea of a relationship out of hand.”

Revan sighs and sobers, stops walking a moment to look at him. Mostly so he doesn’t fall on his ass when he trips over the giant root behind him. “I’m not,” she says, after a moment. “I just- How can I- No one really loves a mask, and that’s what I am now. I’m a Jedi, I’m in command of  _ all _ the Republic’s armed forces, I’m a Force-damned legend. I don’t have space to be-” and she makes some sort of gesture, isn’t even sure what she’s trying to say. “Besides, I doubt Bastila would want to be with someone who  _ killed a planet. _ She doesn’t understand how we could make that sacrifice.”

Her closest friend’s face softens and twists a little. “So take off the mask,” he says, nearly gentle, and Revan tenses at the very thought. “Once we win against Vitiate, you can step down, put the mask away and never wear it again. You don’t have to be the legend forever.”

“I can’t,” she says immediately, shakes her head. “Someone has to protect the Republic.” And she doesn’t know how to  _ be _ without a mask to hide behind.

“But why does that someone have to be you?”

Revan pushes past Malak, abruptly  _ angry. _ She’d thought he’d understand - of  _ course _ it has to be her, she’s the one who defeated Mandalore, the one who will defeat Vitiate. Without her, the Republic never would’ve won; the Mandalorian Triumph would’ve continued unabated until the entire galaxy was ashes lit ablaze. Without her, they never would’ve discovered Vitiate and his Empire, and the Sith would’ve had plenty of time to build their fleet, gather all the intel they needed, and launch a devastating campaign that would crush the Republic into pieces.

Master Kae had said once that she sensed Revan was meant for great things.

And what could be greater than protecting the Republic?

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she mumbles. “Let’s just go.”

Credit where it’s due: Malak knows her well enough he doesn’t try to push the conversation further, just sighs and takes his place at her right shoulder. They scout ahead a ways, finally returning to the strike team near midday, and even seeing Bastila again can’t rouse Revan from the mood she’s fallen into. They pause for a quick meal and she takes hers into the jungle a short distance, leaps up and climbs a nearby tree - she hasn’t done this since she was a youngling on Dantooine, but it’s easy enough to find a place to perch in the branches, where she can pull off her mask and eat without anyone seeing her face.

Early on in the war, when the decisions she had to make still made her sick to her stomach and she’d nearly gotten herself killed multiple times a battle to save foot soldiers, she’d made herself feel better by rationalizing that when she took off the mask, she no longer was Revan the General; the blank, emotionless mask carried all the weight of her sins and was a persona she donned to face the galaxy and those who would shatter it. But in private, around her close friends - Alek and Qatya mostly - she could take the mask off, leave it behind, and just be  _ Revan, _ Revan the Jedi Knight, Revan who climbed the Senate Tower on a dare and laughed when she nearly fell, Revan who stood before a Council of those she’d been raised to obey and spat their own lessons back in their face because they’d forgotten that the masters were supposed to learn from the padawans.

Revan isn’t sure when that changed, exactly. Maybe Duro. Maybe the Obliss sector, when she’d abandoned an entire planet to the Mandalorians to save Alek, who’d walked into a trap set by Casus Fett himself.

There is no longer a difference between Revan the General and Revan the Knight. Or perhaps - it’s more accurate to say, Revan the Knight no longer exists. There is just Revan, the legend, the mask, and the unending list of what she’ll sacrifice to protect the galaxy.

After a quick lunch, their team moves on again through the thick jungle. There’s very little conversation, especially as they get closer to the stronghold on the scanners, and that suits Revan’s mood just fine. As the afternoon wears on, though, and the shadows lengthen, her anger at Malak begins to dissipate. He was more than likely just trying to make her feel better, after all, and she’d been the one to bring up the conversation in the first place. 

Still. Malak is the one person Revan thought would truly understand why she can’t just walk away.

Later in the evening, they set up camp in the jungle; Revan informs them all she’s going to go ahead, scout out the stronghold, see what it looks like. They need information, after all, and she finds she can’t simply be this close to Vitiate and not do  _ something _ to hurt him. 

The voice catches her after she’s set out (alone, though there were multiple protests, and Malak, Bastila, and Carth had all tried to come with her), as she’s creeping through a particularly thick patch of underbrush, drawing on the Force to keep her quiet and unnoticeable.

_ Revan. _

Revan  _ freezes,  _ hands dropping to her saber hilts on instinct. She  _ knows _ that voice, knows the tone of it, knows the way it brushes icily against her mind.

Vitiate.

_ Get out of my head, _ she snaps back, hands tightening around her sabers even though it’s pointless - she can’t fight a whisper. She jerks up as many layers of mental shields as she can, even though that’s pointless too.

There’s a silent laugh, and she swallows hard, can barely manage to take a breath.  _ But you’re the one who let me in, _ he murmurs.  _ You destroyed a planet, my young Knight. We are far more alike than you realize. _

_ We are nothing alike! _ Revan remembers snarling the same words at a Mandalorian general, remembers her laughter. Vitiate laughs too, and they’re not the same, but the similarities send shivers down her spine anyway.  _ And I  _ will _ destroy you. _

_ I know where you are. I know everything you do. You live because I let you. And I do want you alive, Revan. Think of what we’ll accomplish together. _ He sounds so  _ smug, _ so certain, and she frantically pulls up her strongest shields, the ones that can (and have) keep out the entire Jedi High Council. Vitiate brushes them away like sand.  _ You cannot escape me, Jedi. _

“Get  _ out!” _ Revan snarls, and  _ hurls _ the Force at his voice - the foliage around her flattens as a wave of Force passes over it, crushing it, and some kind of squirrel is flung into a tree with an audible  _ crack. _ She’s panting, hands shaking where they’re clinging to her saber hilts for dear life, and she can’t stop the cold, crawling sensation spreading across her skin.

There’s another whisper of silent laughter, and then Vitiate’s presence vanishes. Revan still can’t move.

Then she hears voices again, in the distance. Unfamiliar ones. “Did you hear that?”

Kriffing  _ shit. _

Revan stretches out into the Force, tentatively, finds a pair of unfamiliar Force-signatures not far away and coming towards her - a pair of guards, probably, close enough to have heard her shout. She hadn’t realized she was so close to the stronghold.

(Maybe she shouldn’t have come alone after all.)

She can’t let them find her.

For a moment, Revan considers killing them - it’d be easy, assuming they’re similar to the soldiers she’d fought when she escaped Vitiate the first time. They’re nothing like Mandalorians, their armor doesn’t block lightsabers-

And if she kills them, they’ll fail to report in. Revan’s the Supreme Commander of the Republic armed forces; this may be an unfamiliar army, but she knows how protocols work. If a patrol goes missing, the stronghold will be roused, and their camp won’t be safe. Someone will come investigate, will see the soldiers killed by lightsabers, and this part of the jungle will be filled with soldiers by nightfall.

Revan pauses abruptly.

Maybe she can  _ use _ that.

Sure, they’ve been traveling all day, but at a slower pace to stay hidden. And the soldiers will have had time to rest - and Jedi can press on for far longer than most.

Beneath her mask, Revan smiles.

The two guards aren’t far off, walking a well-trod path some thirty meters away from a grey wall. They’re both wearing plastoid armor, black mostly, embossed with a red insignia she’d seen in the shipyards outside the city. Revan watches them for a moment, hidden in the branches of a tree near the path they’re walking, listens to them talking quietly to each other. 

“I heard Darth Rivitz is moving against her master,” one of them says.

The other scoffs. “And I suppose you, a lowly trooper, have got the ears of all sorts of high-up Sith, do you?”

“I didn’t say that. Listen, I’ve got a friend stationed at the Citadel. Last time I was in Kaas City, we met up at the Nexus Room. He said Rivitz is trying for a Council seat, she’s mobilizing her whole power base.”

A chuckle. “Well, we knew it would happen eventually. Anyone who makes Darth is too ambitious to stay still for long. Not that we have to worry.”

_ “You _ don’t, maybe. I’ve been trying to get into the Citadel for ages.”

“And yet you’re still out here on patrol with me.”

Kaas City, that must be the name of the city she and Malak had discovered. Revan files that away, as well as the name: Darth Rivitz. The conversation, she thinks, implies that the  _ Darth _ title is somewhat common, and they’d mentioned a Council. How much could the Sith hierarchy mirror the Jedi’s?

She shakes herself from her thoughts and, as the two troopers cross under her perch, she drops down onto them, igniting her lightsabers as she does. The plastoid armor crumples beneath the glowing plasma blades and the two men are dead before they can even register her presence.

Good.

She tucks her sabers away, leaves the bodies where they’ve fallen, and looks at the wall a moment, judging the height; she and the other three Jedi could easily jump it, and she’s sure the soldiers under her command have grappling lines. Good. They can sneak in this way.

Revan fades back into the trees and taps her comm, finds Malak’s frequency. “Malak, come in,” she says, quietly though there shouldn’t be any guards coming by for a while now.

_ “I’m here,” _ Malak says, after a moment.  _ “What is it, Revan?” _ They all know it’s risky to use comms; even if the Empire doesn’t know their encryptions, the signals can still be picked up and traced.

“Have the squad break camp and meet me at these coordinates. We’re attacking the stronghold as soon as it’s night.”

There’s a pause.  _ “We don’t have any information-” _

“Exactly. That’s why we need to hit this place, hard and fast, steal what we can from their records. I killed a guard patrol. Once the bodies are found with lightsaber wounds, whatever military forces are holed up in there will spread out to search the jungle for us - which means we can sneak in and face less resistance.” Revan grins, sharply. “We might even have a chance to destroy the entire base.”

Malak sighs, the sound crackling heavily across the comm, and she winces at the feedback in her ear.  _ “We don’t know what kind of forces are in there, if they have Sith, anything. We don’t even know the layout.” _

Revan paces back and forth, presses her lips together. “Who’s the master tactician here?” she asks, impatient. “I don’t  _ need _ the layout, Malak, you know I can strategize on the fly. And small-scale invasions  _ are _ my specialty. Just have them meet me, I know what I’m doing.”

_ “Fine,” _ Malak says. She can tell he’s annoyed, but he listens.  _ “I’ll see you soon.” _

While she waits for her team, Revan inspects the wall again, trying to guess how large the stronghold is - without climbing the wall it’s hard to tell, but she is able to find a squared-off corner where the wall turns and runs deeper into the jungle, as far as she can see.

Bigger than they thought it’d be, it seems.

Once her squad finally arrives, Revan explains the basics of her plan: that they wait for the dead patrol to be discovered - which should be soon, she’s been keeping count of the time - and the search to start, then climb the wall under cover of darkness. Most of the squad is fine, but Carth pulls her aside as they spread out to hide themselves in the trees as she’s ordered.

“Are you sure about this, sir?” he asks, and she wonders at the rank for a minute. He’s been informal enough with her before - but then again, he’s directly under her command right now, and he’s raising questions about a battle strategy.

“It’ll work,” Revan says firmly. “And we aren’t spending all this time here without causing some damage.”

Carth gives her a look, then sighs and nods. “Alright,” he says, snaps a sharp salute and heads off to find a place to hide.

She wonders why he’s so worried. Compared to some of the battles she knows he’s fought in, this is incredibly low-stakes. It’s not like they’re battling over the fate of a planet, or for a sector full of trade routes, after all.

Revan voices these thoughts to Malak as they sit on opposing branches of a tree, far enough back from the guards’ path their quiet voices can’t be heard. He looks at her strangely when she does. “That’s not why he’s worried, you know.”

Revan blinks, tilts her head to one side and considers this. “You trust me to do this, don’t you?” she asks. It hurts a little that she even has to ask the question.

“Of course I do, this isn’t about  _ trust,” _ her best friend says, sounds nearly frustrated - hurt, she realizes, poking at the Force. Hurt that she’d doubt him like that. “But you’re not  _ infallible, _ Revan, and we really don’t know what we’re walking into.”

He’s wrong. Revan hasn’t lost a battle in years, even if the price she paid for some victories was higher than anyone else would accept. She  _ refuses _ to.

“We’ll be fine, Malak,” she says. “I think one of us would be able to tell if there was something dangerous in there.” She pushes a feeling towards him, in the Force: the sense she’d had whenever a battle was a trap, the heavy weight of  _ danger _ the first time she saw Mandalore across a battlefield.

Malak grimaces a little and nods. “You’re right,” he says, and she grins, though he can’t see it.

“I usually am.”

~

Imperial troopers are swarming the jungle by the time full dark hits. Once the wave has passed by their hiding places, Revan hops down from the tree, lets out a two-toned whistle, and sees her troops detach themselves from the shadows. They cross to the wall, quietly, and then Revan leaps up, balances for a moment on the narrow top, looks down - there’s a series of buildings, some smaller, and a couple much larger, all being patrolled by guards, but fewer than she suspects there would’ve been - and then waves for the rest of her group to follow.

The dark provides cover as they slip between outbuildings, avoiding the floodlights that sweep over the main paths. Her soldiers take out several lone patrols in the shadows, and Kreyik kills one with the staff part of their saberstaff, never igniting the vivid turquoise blade. In this fashion, they creep towards the two larger buildings, one on either side of the main road.

At a closer look, one seems to be some kind of warehouse, with large doors and vehicles near them, and Revan turns to Carth, murmurs, “Take your squad and get inside that warehouse. Record everything you can, slice their systems if you have the chance, then burn it to the ground. I want to destroy as much of this place as possible.”

Carth nods. “That’ll ruin our surprise,” he says, and Revan smiles a little behind her mask.

“I imagine it will. Grapple back over the wall if you have to and scatter into the jungle, and meet us at the emergency rendezvous.”

“Where will you be?”

Revan gestures towards the other large building, with its several wings and the turret defense in front of the door. “We’re going to break in there.”

Carth looks at her for a moment, then smiles, nearly soft. “Come back alive,” he says, and then he turns to his squad and begins to give orders in a hushed voice.

Revan turns away from him, gestures towards the building she’s chosen as her target, and with a few hand signs she’s confident they all understand. They’ll have to be careful with those turrets - they need to take them out without being too obvious, or the entire rest of the base will be attacking them soon enough.

Maybe…

She slips up quietly behind a soldier standing guard, grabs onto the Force, and steps in front of them. And before they can react, she pours the Force into her voice and murmurs, “You want to destroy the turrets.”

For a moment, she’s not sure it takes, and then: “I want to destroy the turrets,” the soldier says, and pulls their blaster rifle off their shoulder and grabs a handful of charges from their belt. Revan steps back and vaults over the railing nearby, presses close against the building’s wall and huddles in the shadows as the soldier throws their charges against the first turret, pulls their rifle up and fires at the second one.

The charges explode and destroy the first turret, and Revan doesn’t wait to see if the soldier succeeds, just pushes through the building’s main door while the rest of the guards are distracted, several of them shouting and trying to get the soldier to stop. Malak is directly behind her, followed by Bastila and Kreyik, and then the door shuts, blocking out the sounds of fighting outside, and she looks around.

They’re in some kind of entrance hall, done in blacks and reds and greys (and she touches her mask, for just a moment, a little shaken by the similarities), and it goes straight for a little while before curving off to one side. It’s empty, currently, and Revan tugs her cloak closer around her as she turns the corner. The hallway splits - there’s several different rooms that look focused on hosting, a kitchen and even sleeping quarters, she finds as they explore - and at the far end there’s an elevator. The entire upstairs is empty, without any open terminals, and so Revan returns to the main hall and looks at the elevator.

It’s encrypted, requires a security key to activate; Malak hands her a security spike and she gets to work slicing it, and the encryption is unfamiliar but the spike helps and it’s really a low-level security system, so she’s able to break it in only a couple of minutes.

“Let’s see what’s hiding down here,” she says as the elevator doors swoosh open.

“I don’t like this,” Bastila murmurs, but she follows Revan in. “Shouldn’t there be guards?”

Revan shrugs. “Maybe whoever owns this place thought the security system would keep anyone out. Remember, they think we’re in the jungle.”

“I suppose… Still.” The younger Jedi doesn’t look convinced.

As the lift descends, Revan stretches out into the Force, searching for any signs of danger; there are quite a few lifeforms in the area they’re approaching, but there’s no sense of warning. “There’s nothing dangerous to us here,” she says, confident in  _ that _ much, at least. “But there are guards down here.”

She understands why as soon as the lift doors open and she steps out.

They’re deep underground, though the decor hasn’t changed any, except for more statues, and the sconces on the wall are filled with a flickering blue flame. The hallway leads straight on into the shadows, and to the left it branches off - Revan looks around the corner and sees what looks to be some kind of… lab, with equipment she doesn’t recognize and scientists moving around. There're multiple guards outside the doors, and she realizes that each of the branches she can see down the hallway lead to more of these labs, all heavily guarded.

Some of them have sentients inside.

Revan is going to destroy this entire place.

There’s no hope in avoiding the guards, and the rush of anger surging through her means Revan doesn’t even want to  _ try; _ she pulls out both her sabers and cuts through the guards with impunity - and the scientists too, once one pulls a blaster on her. There are  _ people _ in cryotubes along the walls, pieces of cybernetic parts and something that looks like genetic modification, and Revan destroys everything she can.

“We can’t free them,” Kreyik says quietly. “Not until we’re about to leave.”

Revan understands why - they can’t risk anyone knowing about their presence and surviving to spread the word - but the words still send a flare of anger through her. 

_ Yes, good, feel that rage, _ a voice whispers, and Revan clenches her hands  _ tight _ on her saber hilts and turns on her heel.

“Let’s move on,” she says, sharp and short. “I want all these labs destroyed.”

Alarms are blaring by the time they’ve finished the third lab, but there’s no additional forces sent down. Later, Revan will realize that should’ve been her first clue that something was wrong; but right now, with her anger beating a sharp counterpoint to her heart and the Force seeming to encourage her, it’s the last thing on her mind.

They destroy the fourth lab, and then Revan makes for the door at the far end of the hall, which had previously been guarded by two more Imperial troopers, before she threw both lightsabers into them at the same time. This door isn’t secured, and Revan steps through it as soon as it opens, sabers ignited, eyes casting around behind her mask.

They’re in a larger circular room, with multiple computer banks along one wall - Malak goes straight to those, taps away for a moment before fumbling with a belt pouch, pulling out a datastick and inserting it. “Jackpot,” he says, grinning. “It seems this planet’s called Dromund Kaas, and it’s the capital of the Sith Empire - just like we thought. There’s a  _ lot _ of information in these databanks, most of it encrypted.”

“Download it all,” Revan says, paces to the center of the room and puts her sabers back on her belt. Bastila is keeping watch at the entrance to the room, prepared but not  _ tense, _ Malak looks relaxed, and Revan can feel the anger that’s been fueling her starting to seep away. She crosses the room to lean against one of the databanks, idly running her fingers across it, and looks over at Kreyik.

The Rhodian is the only one of them who doesn’t seem calm. They’ve got their head cocked, like they’re listening, eyes gone unfocused - paying attention to the Force, more than likely - and then abruptly they whirl and make for the back of the room, where there’s a large cabinet of some kind, covered with what look like  _ holocrons. _

They should take those. Revan can only imagine what kind of secrets they could hold.

And then she realizes that’s not what Kreyik is looking at.

The cabinet  _ moves, _ slides across the wall, revealing a hidden hallway behind it. At the same time, Bastila calls, “Revan, we have incoming!”

“How many?” Revan asks, pushing off the databank, one hand going to her belt. She turns to face Bastila, passes Malak, who’s finishing with the datastick and tucking it away securely, watches the woman step partway out the door again for a moment before ducking back inside, something like fear flashing across her face before it settles into determination.

“At least a full squad,” she says, “and there’s- two with them, dressed in black. Carrying lightsabers.”

Sith.

And then there’s the sound of a lightsaber from behind her, and a choked-off noise of  _ pain. _

Revan turns, slowly. The Force feels heavy around her, all of a sudden, like she’s moving through molasses.

The first thing she sees is Kreyik’s jewel-toned body sliding limply to the floor, a gaping hole burned through their stomach.  _ No. _ Their Force-signature is still pulsing faintly with life, but so, so  _ dim, _ and this is her fault, she walked them right into this trap-

The second thing she sees is the lurid red lightsaber, the glow reflecting off the floor, the nearby walls, and the wielder’s robes.

A- man, she supposes, though she’s never seen anyone like him before, steps through the concealed hallway into the room. He’s tall, with dark reddish-brown skin and strange bone spurs hanging from his chin and protruding from where his eyebrows should be. His eyes are nearly as red as his lightsaber, with an orange ring around the pupils, and his hair - the color of dried blood - hangs over the sides of his face, nearly obscuring a pair of metal cybernetics set into his skin.

He’s wearing a mixture of robes and armor, with metal - more cybernetics, maybe? Revan can’t tell - wrapping around his neck and cradling his chin, and he’s  _ smiling. _

“I am Darth Incendius of the Dark Council, head of the Sphere of Biotic Science,” and he flourishes his saber as though to emphasize. “Welcome to my stronghold, Revan, Jedi Knight. We have  _ such _ plans for you.”

And, abruptly, the Force fills with a thick, choking, seething  _ Darkness, _ and Revan can barely breathe.

And with one last, desperate gasp, Kreyik’s Force-signature winks out.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please note the changed relationship tags. i definitely totally planned it, 100%, the characters definitely didn't spring this on me as i was writing, forcing me to change my entire plan for this fic. see that note about Revan being a contrary bastard and doing whatever she wants, and Malak.... well he's really not that different tbh. ANYWAY. 
> 
> i have officially gotten to my new state, although my living situation is tenuous, but my writing will probably slow down soon because i'm searching for a job so we can get a more stable living situation. i'm definitely still working on this fic though.
> 
> this chapter is literally ALL angst. also a warning: there is some Injuries here, and while nothing is outright described graphically, i looked up many pictures of second-degree burns for this.
> 
> finally, fuck Vitiate. that is all.

Revan can barely breathe.

The Sith - Incendius, apparently - chuckles, steps a few more paces into the room and makes an absent gesture with his free hand, and blinding electricity leaps from his fingers towards Revan. It happens almost in slow motion: she sees the gesture, sees the sparks begin to form, and the Force is  _ screaming _ but all she can see is Kreyik’s body falling to the floor and she feels frozen in place, fingers locked around her saber hilts but unable to move. It’s going to hit her, she realizes, almost distantly, but her head feels foggy, the thick cloying Darkness making it hard to think. An all-too-familiar icy laugh is echoing in her mind.

The lightning forks out.

And suddenly Revan is being  _ slammed _ sideways - she stumbles, loses her balance and falls, instinct taking over and turning it into a roll, and she ends up on her feet with her sabers in her hands and out.

In the same instant, she smells something burning, and then someone lets out a hoarse cry she  _ knows. _ A cry she hears in her nightmares.

_ “Malak!” _ Revan shouts, spinning around, and he’s  _ on the floor _ and there’s smoke rising from a blackened spot on his robes and suddenly whatever spell held her in place is broken, and she lunges forward to attack Incendius. “You  _ bastard,” _ she snarls, and aims her sabers straight for the Sith’s face and his too-smug smile.

“Be  _ careful, _ Revan!” Bastila calls from the door, where she’s fighting her own battle, from the sounds of it - Revan can hear her dualsaber spinning, and blasterfire deflecting off it.

But she doesn’t have time to worry about Bastila.

Incendius brings up his saber to block both hers, and he sends another jolt of lightning towards her unprotected stomach; she twists out of the way, can still feel the heat and a sharp brush of pain as it zaps past her. She’s forced to pull her sabers back into a defensive stance as the Sith lunges forward - sometimes using one hand, sometimes two, on his saber hilt - his red saber flashing in some kind of incredibly aggressive form she’s never seen before. 

Revan twists and turns, dodging as often as she blocks, reaching out to the Force for support, even though everything’s just Dark and heavy, because without it enhancing her reflexes she’s at too much a disadvantage. Incendius is no common Force-user - he’s  _ powerful, _ his presence in the Force equal to hers, and she doesn’t know enough about Sith techniques to predict his next moves.

The Force floods through her, makes her next set of slashes blindingly quick, and for a moment Revan grins behind her mask, exulting in her power, and then:

_ You’re doing well,  _ Vitiate’s voice hums, and she stumbles, her lightsabers faltering, and she barely dodges Incendius’ next attack, which leaves a burning mark on her upper arm.  _ Harness your anger, let it free you. _

_ Get out of my head! _ Revan responds, as harshly as she can, but her focus is split now, and the Sith she’s facing gets another mark in on her side. The wounds  _ burn, _ and she bares her teeth, grabs onto the pain and forces it to fuel her instead, turning it into a power she can hold onto deep in her bones, giving her the strength and flexibility to actually force Incendius back for a moment.

All she feels in response from Vitiate is a wave of amusement.

The duel settles into a sort of pattern, almost; Revan begins to anticipate Incendius’ movements, starts to recognize when he’s about to use his Force lightning, which she  _ can _ block on her sabers, though it’s difficult. It’s easier to just avoid the blasts (he doesn’t seem to be able to hold a channeled current the way the Sith who’d tortured her and Malak had).

Malak is still laying on his back where he’d landed. He’s alive, she can tell that much, but she can feel his pain through the Force, can feel an echo of it on her own chest, and he’s barely moving. He’s in pain and it’s because of  _ her, _ and that twists something in her chest. She keeps inflicting so much on her best friend in her drive to stop Vitiate, and a part of her wonders how much longer he’ll be willing to take it. (Except he’d never leave her, she  _ knows _ that. Wouldn’t he?)

Revan catches Incendius’ saber on both her own as he bears down on her, his weight keeping her fairly well pinned in place, and she casts around the room looking for Bastila, doesn’t see the younger Jedi - a quick reach into the Force reveals her out in the main hallway, probably still fighting the Sith and troopers there. She’s too far to be of any help, and Malak is barely stirring on the floor.

She’s alone.

And, in that moment, Incendius drops one hand from his saber hilt and makes a sharp clawing gesture with it. Revan dives to one side, shutting her sabers off briefly to escape the bladelock, only there’s no lightning.

Instead, something constricts around her throat, and suddenly she can’t  _ breathe. _

She’s dropped her sabers (the hilts clattering unlit to the floor) and brought her hands up to grab at her neck before she can even think. Incendius is smiling again, smug as the Temple tookas when someone had brought them spare bits of fish, and he walks towards her, slowly, saber reaching towards her neck. And Revan can’t  _ move, _ her vision spotting as she gasps helplessly for  _ anything, _ any air at all, and he’s going to  _ kill her _ and she’s alone and powerless and-

Incendius shuts his saber off as it passes over her shoulder, reaches forward, and hooks the burning-hot emitter around the corner of her mask, drags it against her cheek and rips the mask away. And it  _ hurts, _ sharp stabbing pain blazing through her entire face, and she can’t breathe but she makes a strangled noise anyway. It feels like her entire face is on fire, agony shooting through her at the slightest twitch of a muscle, and Incendius is  _ laughing, _ and her mask is on the floor and he can  _ see her face, _ and there’s darkness crowding the edges of her vision, and all she can see is the burning red eyes across from her-

“Unfortunately,” she hears, the Sith’s voice so far away she can barely make out the words, “I’m not allowed to kill you. It’s a shame, but there are so many other ways to have my fun, and I’ve even been granted leave to try some of my more ambitious experiments on you. Our Emperor thinks you’re strong enough to withstand them.”

And the constriction on her throat finally eases.

Revan barely has time to gasp in a blessedly deep breath before she’s crashing hard into the wall; her head and shoulder take the worst of it, though the pain is only a dull ache compared to the agony that is the left side of her face, but she must bite her cheek on impact because her mouth is flooded with the taste of blood.

But she can  _ breathe. _

And that’s when it registers, properly:

_ Incendius took off her mask. _

And there is pain, so  _ much _ pain, but this is something Revan has known how to do since Malachor: to take every shred of that pain and turn it into power, until the burn on her face is an inferno in her very blood and the Force rages around her with the intensity of it.

She will  _ not be beaten. _ Not here, not now, not by a man who uses treachery to fight because his raw strength isn’t enough, not when Kreyik is  _ dead _ and Malak is on the floor and Bastila is alone against so many.

Revan will. not. lose. 

Incendius is walking towards her, slowly, so amused, and Revan presses her palms against the floor and pushes herself to her feet, spits blood out of her mouth and  _ snarls, _ shoots both hands out and calls her sabers back to them, igniting them as they fly towards her. The familiar sharp snap-hiss startles the Sith and he barely dodges as the white and purple blades cleave through the air he was just in.

“I am no one’s experiment,” Revan spits, twirls both her sabers, holding them low and out to the side. It’s hardly a useful position, but she doesn’t care, stalks towards Incendius with the Force as a mantle surrounding her (and she can almost  _ see _ it, glowing a low, baleful crimson, hovering just off her skin). “Least of all yours.”

And she lifts her fingers away from her saber hilt, and the Force is in her bones and when she flicks her fingers Incendius loses his loosened grip on his saber hilt, and it flies across the room and hits the wall, the blade dying away. The Sith doesn’t look so smug anymore, Revan notices, takes a savage enjoyment in that. In fact, he looks nearly  _ afraid. _

He takes a deep breath, steeling himself, and lifts both hands, sends a cascade of Force lightning towards her, and Revan snaps up both sabers, catching the lightning on the blades, and it feels like pushing into a snowstorm but the Force whirls around her just as strong and so she walks forward, closer, closer, until they’re just inches away from each other.

And then she smiles, teeth stained red, feels more like a loth-wolf than anything human. “You shouldn’t have taken off my mask,” she says, low, fierce, nearly growling the words.

Her sabers flash.

The lightning blinks out.

And Incendius’ body falls to the floor in two pieces.

Revan stands there for a moment, shuddering with the aftershocks of so much power rushing through her, and then she shakes herself, clips her sabers to her belt and calls her mask to her hand. Even with the Force wrapping around her, dulling the pain, she can’t stop herself from making a pained noise when she fits the mask against her face; the burn from Incendius’ lightsaber stretches from under her ear, across the bottom of her cheek, and just barely brushes the left side of her mouth and nose. It’s only an inch, maybe an inch and a half wide, but even without anything covering her face the slightest twitch in her facial expression sends a bolt of pain across the entire left side of her head. With the mask pressing against the burned skin constantly, the pain is enough to almost bring tears to her eyes.

But it’s a weakness she can’t afford. Especially when her own inability to  _ focus, _ her own weakness, caused Malak so much pain. Whatever she feels now - it’s what she deserves, she supposes. (Kreyik is  _ dead.) _

_ Elegantly done, _ a voice hums in her head. Vitiate again. Revan  _ hates _ him, but she doesn’t let herself focus on him, just pulls up all her shields and kneels down next to Malak, gently shaking her friend’s shoulder.

“Malak, wake up,” she says quietly, clenching her left hand into a tight first to avoid making a noise. Talking  _ hurts. _

“I’m awake,” he says, groaning, and sits up slowly, rubs at his forehead and offers her a pained grimace masquerading as a smile. “My chest is going to be sore for a few days, but I’m alright.”

Revan gets to her feet, offers Malak a hand, helping him up. “We need to get out of here,” she says, can’t help her voice sounding strained. “Incendius is dead, and I don’t want to be around when everyone finds that out.”

Malak nods, though he gives her a concerned look. “Are you alright?” he asks, frowning, and Revan waves a hand.

“I’m just tired,” she says. “It wasn’t an easy fight.”

Malak accepts that answer, though he looks a little like he wants to press further, and they step out into the hallway together. Bastila is fighting one-on-one with a Sith apprentice, double-bladed saber spinning furiously in her hands; as Revan watches, the younger Jedi sidesteps a thrust from the Sith and takes advantage, stabbing one end of her saber through the Sith’s chest.

The apprentice falls and Bastila turns to them, relief written clearly across her face. “You’re alright, then. I was worried.”

“The Sith is dead,” Revan says, short, sees surprise flash across Bastila’s face, though it seems to be more at Revan’s tone than the news. “We need to get out of here.”

Bastila doesn’t disagree.

When the three of them step outside the building, Revan’s struck by the sight of a wall of flames. Where the warehouse building used to be is a roaring inferno, pieces of the building crashing down, and there’s no sign of Carth or his squad. The remaining Imperial troopers and a few Sith are so focused on the fire they pay Revan, Malak, and Bastila no mind, and it turns out to be surprisingly easy to escape the stronghold.

The flight to their rendezvous turns out to be much more difficult.

Every footstep sends pain jarring through Revan’s head as the mask makes firmer contact with her burn, and the more mild injuries on her arm and leg ache in a constant pulsing wave of agony. Her throat burns too, sore and strained, and swallowing and breathing both feel like knives dragging down the back of it. There’s definitely going to be a bruise around her trachea in the morning, she can tell.

To make matters worse, the longer they move through the jungle, the more the Force begins to slip away from Revan’s grasp. It’s been some eighteen hours since she last slept, and between all the running ahead to scout, forcing Vitiate out of her head, and the raid on the stronghold, she’s exhausted most of her endurance. But they’re nearly to the rendezvous, and maybe she can beg off a watch tonight. A full night of sleep should help the pain considerably, and she’ll be able to bear it much better with the Force’s help again. Revan doggedly strengthens her shields, trapping all the pain behind them - she can’t have Malak feeling any of this. He’s gone through enough already. No matter how much she begins to falter as they continue walking, she refuses to let them drop.

By the time they make it to where Carth’s squad has set up their camp, though, the Force’s protection is completely gone, and she can’t stop tears welling up in her eyes as she chews her lip raw to keep from making noise. Her mask digs into her cheek with every little movement and it’s agonizing, sending spots flickering across her vision. Or maybe that’s the tears, she doesn’t know. Her legs are shaking, and she feels nearly lightheaded, her entire face hot and her skin too tight.

She needs to sit down, or something.

As they walk into the small circle of firelight, Revan’s hood falls forward, obscuring her vision, and she reaches up to push it back - and accidentally knocks her knuckles lightly into her mask. Pain  _ explodes _ across her jaw and she bites down so hard on her lip she tastes blood, but she can’t stop a whimper as her vision goes white and her legs buckle; she flails out, catches Malak’s arm and clings to him to steady herself, panting in short, sharp bursts. Oh, Force, she hurts, she hurts so  _ much.  _ She can’t  _ do this. _

“Revan?” Malak asks, his arms going around her, and she clings to his solid strength, trembling as he eases her down to sit on the ground, kneels next to her. She can barely see through the tears in her eyes, her vision swimming. Oh, Force, she’s never felt anything like this before. “Revan, hey, look at me. What’s wrong?”

“Mask,” she croaks out, even the one word sending another bright sunburst of burning agony across her cheek.  _ It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. _

There’s a bolt of pure  _ fear _ in the Force, and she realizes distantly it’s Malak’s; she must’ve dropped her shields. She struggles to pull them back up, but she can’t focus on anything other than the pain.

Gentle fingers catch the edges of her mask and pull it away, and she hates that, can feel too many eyes on her, but Force, the pain lessons a little and the dampness in the air soothes just a little of the burn. She sags into Malak, hears at least one sharply-indrawn breath.

Malak feels  _ angry. _

“What the  _ hells, _ Revan!” he says, and she can hear the fear in his voice too, mixing with the anger to create a strange, shaky sharpness completely at odds with how carefully he tucks her hair behind her ear and takes her chin in his hands, tilting her head back and forth. She squeezes her eyes shut, feels a few more tears slip out onto her cheeks. “Who did this to you, the Sith?”

She nods, reaches into the Force and catches his mind, projects the memory: choking to death as Incendius reaches out nearly-tenderly with a white-hot saber hilt to peel her mask away.  _ He took it, _ she thinks, and  _ it hurts it hurts it hurts. _

There’s a burst of swearing. “Someone get me kolto,” he snaps, and she hears movement as he gently peels down the neck of her undershirt, brushes his thumb over her throat. She makes a soft noise of protest - it’s a milder pain but it still aches - and he shushes her. “Where else are you hurt?”

Revan pushes an impression of a disgruntled sigh at him. He doesn’t even dignify that with a response, just pushes the question at her silently as well. Reluctantly, she shows him the flashes of a cut on her arm, her leg.

“Is that all?” he asks, soft, then raises his voice. “Bastila, hold her.”

Revan cracks her eyes open as Malak’s arms disappear, only to be replaced by a less familiar but known hand on her shoulder, and she leans into the contact. Bastila squeezes her shoulder tightly and that helps a little.

She closes her eyes again.

There’s the sound of a crinkling package, and then fingers touch the burn on her cheek and Revan cries out without meaning to, jerks away and loses her balance and has to catch herself against the ground, eyes flying open. “Don’t,” she manages, eyes finding Malak’s.

He looks so  _ scared. _

“I need to,” he says, quietly. “It’s kolto, it’ll help.”

_ It hurts. _

“I know, I’m sorry, but I have to do this. Get me some  _ Force-damned _ painkillers, Carth!” Malak looks away from her for a moment to snap over his shoulder. “Revan, please, trust me.” He’s practically begging.

She doesn’t look away from his eyes. She can  _ feel _ him silently pleading her, wordlessly. Carth approaches, hands over a syringe, and Malak yanks the cap off immediately.  _ Give me your arm. _

Revan holds her arm out and he smoothly inserts the needle into her elbow, depresses the plunger - they’d both done a lot of field medicine near the end of the war. She recognizes the clear syringe and the nearly-instant foggy feeling. She’d only been injured badly enough to need morphine once, but it’s distinctive.

She lets out a soft sob as relief sweeps through her body, cooling the burn and leaving behind a blessed numbness and heavy feeling in her muscles, and she lists sideways, feels Bastila catch her. “I can do some healing,” the Jedi murmurs, carefully adjusting Revan so the unburnt side of her face is resting on Bastila’s shoulder.

_ “Please,” _ Malak says quickly. “Revan, I’m putting the kolto on now, alright?”

She hums, eyes flickering up to stare at Bastila’s face as the other woman sinks into a deep concentration. The abrupt lack of pain leaves her nearly giddy.  _ Her eyes are pretty, _ she thinks lazily.

Malak smiles, a little ghost of a thing.  _ I like green better, _ he tells her, starts gently spreading kolto across her face.

_ My eyes are green, _ Revan responds.

_ I know. _ He seems… almost sad.

Revan twitches one hand at him, manages to bump his arm.  _ Blue is nice too, don’t be ridiculous. _

“Careful,” he says out loud, “you’ll make me spill the kolto.” His side of their connection is abruptly much quieter.

She shrugs one shoulder, although she knows he’s right. “Fine,” she whispers hoarsely, “I’ll leave you alone if you come back.” She doesn’t want to admit how much of a comfort his thoughts are, but with Vitiate seemingly able to break through every shield whenever he wants…

Well. She’s always trusted Malak with everything.

She shifts as an uncomfortable itching feeling starts up on her leg where Incendius had cut her. She’s familiar with the sensation of Force-healing, but no matter how many times she feels it, she can’t quite get used to it. To take her mind off it, she reaches out to Malak again, brushes her thoughts against his shields with a fond nudge.  _ Come on. _

Malak sighs, dropping his hand to her neck, the budding bruises from being choked, and reluctantly lowers his shields again.  _ You could say please, you know. _

She scoffs, then winces as that hurts her throat.  _ When have I ever done that? _

The kolto is cool and damp against her skin. It almost feels as nice as the gentle pressure of Malak’s fingers.

“I know,” he murmurs, a smile playing around the corners of his lips, “it’s a futile request. Don’t even know why I asked.”

Revan closes her eyes as the morphine takes a deeper hold, lets the soothing feeling of Malak’s touch calm her as he finishes applying the kolto to her injuries and begins to bandage them. His thoughts are a soft, comforting press against hers, and she’s nearly drifted off by the time he sits back and clears his throat a little. 

“You need to sleep,” he tells her, and she smiles, doesn’t open her eyes. What does he think she’s trying to do?  _ On an actual bedroll, not on Bastila’s shoulder, _ he says, a little pointed.

“I’ve done all I can for tonight,” Bastila says. “I am- tired, myself.”

“Carth is going to handle the watches for tonight,” Malak says, moving around. “Give me a minute and I’ll take her from you.”

Bastila says something else, but Revan doesn’t catch it, and then there’s arms around her, lifting her off the ground. Malak again.  _ Stay with me? _ she asks blearily, fumbling to catch his hand, as he walks a few steps away and then crouches down, gently sets her down on her bedroll and pulls the blanket over her.

_ I’m always with you, Revan, _ he says, squeezes her hand for a moment.  _ Go to sleep. _

The last thing she feels before she drifts off is the gentle press of lips against her forehead.

~

Revan is asleep almost as soon as Malak lays her down. He brushes her dark hair away from her face with a gentle touch, lets go of her hand, can’t stop himself from leaning over to press a kiss to her forehead. He’d never dare to if she were awake, and most times she sleeps so lightly a touch will wake her, but between the morphine and her injuries, she’ll be out for a while yet. And no one’s watching him, which means he can linger for a moment, close his eyes and press his forehead against hers, swallowing back the thick tangle of emotion threatening to spill over.

Revan has done a lot of reckless things since they’ve been friends, from the time she broke her arm as a nine-year-old balancing on the back of a wild kath hound on his dare, to the time she deliberately let a Mandalorian general stab her in the gut so she could kill him. She’s never been particularly conscious of her own well-being, but she’s not  _ invincible _ like she seems to think she is.

Malak knows that better than most.

This, though - this has to be the worst she’s ever been.

He still can’t figure out why she’d gone to such lengths to hide such a bad injury from all of them, even him - he’d noticed, of course, that her shields were abnormally high after the fight, and he hadn’t been convinced when she’d said she was just tired. Her voice had been obviously strained and she’d been too tense; Revan is always more relaxed after she’s won a difficult fight, even if it’s not in obvious ways. He’d been planning to press her for more details after treating his own injury (which is still painful, though he’d nearly forgotten about it in the rush of emotion he’d felt after seeing her face), had figured she was hiding something small - but nothing like this.

Revan has  _ never _ collapsed like that before. Even after she’d taken a vibroblade to the stomach, she’d killed the Mandalorian general who did it, turned triumphantly to face her forces and raised her violet saber into the air, swaying on her feet as blood dripped through her clothes. She’d given them a  _ speech _ while she bled out, and he’d had to force her to sit down, had had to apply pressure to stop the bleeding on his own while she argued that it wasn’t that bad, she was needed.

Malak doubts she’ll remember much of this in the morning; morphine does that. He, on the other hand, has no hope of forgetting  _ any _ of it.

Once her shields had dropped, they’d gone down  _ hard, _ and the painkillers had only increased that. He’d felt everything she was feeling: all the pain (so much more intense than his own), the incredible relief… and how much she’d enjoyed and felt comforted by his touch. And that  _ aches _ in a way that’s too familiar.

Malak resigned himself a long time ago to the fact that he’d never have anything other than a deep, close friendship with Revan. And he’s alright with that, really - he knows he’s the most important person in her life, the  _ only  _ person she trusts completely, one of the very few allowed to see her without her mask. They’re partners in almost every sense of the word.

Just not in the one way he wants the most.

Malak is in love with Revan. He’d finally stopped lying to himself about that a year into the war. Not that she’d noticed; she’s never been particularly romantically inclined (at least, not until she met Bastila, and he’s trying very, very hard not to be jealous), and she’s also just generally oblivious to the more subtle nuances of  _ emotions, _ despite how incredible she is at inspiring an army. If he wasn’t quite so hung up on it still, he’d laugh at the fact that  _ Supreme Commander Revan, _ legend of their era, master tactician and brilliantly-skilled Jedi, has a direct link to his mind and still hasn’t realized he loves her.

He sighs and pulls back, brushes his knuckles lightly against her face one last time before standing and returning to the fireside, grabbing the extra kolto packet and the bandages and tape. He needs to treat his own injury before he tries to sleep. He has to pull his tunic off to reach it, which he dislikes - they’re in hostile territory after all - but he makes quick work of the electrical burn and puts the excess supplies away before going back to Revan and laying his bedroll out by hers.

Malak remembers the fear he’d felt as the Incendius cast his lightning, the realization that Revan wasn’t  _ moving _ \- she’d just stared, frozen, and it’d been instinct to half-tackle her and take the lightning himself. That spike of  _ terror _ he’d felt hadn’t been fear for his best friend, it’d been for the woman he loves. The pain of the lightning strike had been a small price to pay for her safety - all the pain he’s suffered to protect her has been worth it, and he’d gladly bear all her pains himself if it meant she wouldn’t have to feel them.

He knows she’d do the same for him if she had the chance, because in her own way, Revan does love him. Whatever she feels for Bastila, whatever comes of that - and he does hope it’ll work out, Revan’s happiness has always meant the galaxy to him, and if Bastila makes her smile that smile he adores so much, good - in the end, all they need is each other. Nothing will ever change that.

Malak lays down on his bedroll and pulls the blanket up, feels Revan reach out to him mentally in her sleep. He reaches back without really thinking and finds himself half-pulled into a vague dream; she’s watching the Sith, Incendius, electrocute  _ him, _ seeing a smug smile, and there’s some kind of cold, cold laugh in her thoughts that doesn’t belong (it makes him shiver, and he feels like he should recognize it, but he can’t), and then abruptly they’re no longer in the Sith stronghold, but in a room he’s only seen once but will never forget.

Malak closes his physical eyes and gives himself entirely to the dream.

The difference is immediately obvious; instead of watching through Revan’s eyes, he’s  _ there, _ the two of them side-by-side in Vitiate’s throne room inside the Dark Temple. She’s got both her saber hilts in her hands, is looking wildly around the room, searching every shadow, and Malak frowns despite himself.

He can’t help noticing she doesn’t have on a mask, in the dream.

“I told you to get out of my head,” Revan says, nearly snarls, and there’s that laugh again. She actually flinches at the sound, and Malak instinctively reaches out to comfort her, but he can’t move - something cold and far more powerful than him is holding him in place. He can’t seem to speak either, and that’s not how dreams  _ work; _ the couple of times he’s found himself pulled into Revan’s dreams, he’d always been able to wake her up and pull her out of it.

“And yet you can’t seem to enforce that,” a voice says, and Malak  _ freezes, _ because he knows that voice. “The Sith teach that you shall have nothing but what you take for yourself, be that power, influence, or, yes, privacy. In this way, the weak are weeded out while the strong flourish.”

Revan scowls, though she doesn’t stop searching the room. “I’m not one of your Sith, Vitiate.” The way she says the Emperor’s name - she’s not surprised by his presence in her dreams. “Now are you going to show yourself, or are you going to just keep being a voice in my head?”

She’s spoken to Vitiate before. And she hasn’t told him.

Why hasn’t she told him?

There’s a chuckle, and then Vitiate steps out of the shadows near Malak, a chilling smile visible on his pale, grey-veined face. Revan spins, ignites both her sabers, and the Emperor shakes his head, makes a tsking noise. “Put those away,” he says, and waves one hand - and the sabers turn themselves off, the blades sliding back into the hilts. “I have no intention of  _ harming _ you, Revan.”

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you,” Revan spits out, but she puts her sabers back on her belt anyway. “You nearly got me killed today!”

Vitiate folds his hands behind his back. He’s still smiling, and it sends a shiver down Malak’s spine. “Today was a test, and you performed admirably. Incendius never would’ve been allowed to test his experiment on you; do you think I’d let him ruin you?”

Revan stiffens, and Malak finds himself struggling to reach out to her again, though to no avail. “I don’t want your  _ approval,” _ she hisses. “I don’t care about your opinions, so enough with your  _ tests. _ Why are you here?”

She sounds firm, fierce, angry even, but Malak knows her, and even though she hasn’t seemed to realize it she’s practically clinging to him, in the Force. She’s  _ terrified. _

“You are powerful, young Knight, and skilled - but you are not the only one who merits my full attention. And if you continue to remain… uncooperative, well.” Vitiate strides forward, comes to a stop in front of Malak, and there’s something cruel and knowing glinting in his burning red eyes. “I suppose I’ll just be forced to turn my efforts to another.”

Revan whirls, eyes going wide as she sees Malak standing there, and if she’d been terrified before now she’s panicking. “Get away from him,” she says, voice low but shaky, crossing the room to push between him and Vitiate. “If you lay  _ one hand _ on him, I’ll-”

“You’ll what?” Vitiate is amused again. Malak feels  _ sick. _ “You have no power over me, Revan. Besides, this is a dream, as you well know. He’s no more than a projection of your mind.” The Sith meets Malak’s eyes when he says that, and his small smile is  _ sickening. _

“I don’t care,” she answers. “I won’t let you touch him.”

No matter the situation, Revan’s unshaking defense of him will always bring warmth to Malak’s chest.

“Oh, child,” Vitiate says. “You cannot stop me. Unless, of course, you stop this useless resistance and accept your place.”

_ No, _ Malak tries to say, hurls it into the Force, but it’s like he’s not even there; Vitiate (because who else could even be capable of this?) brushes the projection away like a fly before Revan can ever hear it.  _ He’s lying, _ because of course the Sith Emperor is lying, he’d only ever used Malak to get to Revan before, when they were prisoners, and it’d worked better than anything else, so why would he change that now? But Revan doesn’t hear.

She doesn’t answer Vitiate either, instead turning to face Malak, and there’s something haunted and  _ aching _ in her green eyes and now it’s not just Vitiate’s power freezing Malak in place.

“Steady, loyal Alek,” she murmurs, her voice catching a little on his old name, the name he’d abandoned after the worst battle yet in their war, where he’d left his Jedi morals behind in the jungle to die like so many wounded soldiers. “Always here when I need you, even if I’m trying to hide from you.” There’s the barest trace of a smile on her face and she lifts a hand, brushes her fingers over his cheek, and this may be a dream - a distant part of him is aware that in reality, he’s laying on his bedroll - but on some level it must be real, because Malak has dreamed of her touching him with this much tenderness for  _ years _ and it’s never felt like this. “You’re the other half of my soul. I can’t let him have you.”

“You’re dreaming, he can’t hear you,” Vitiate says dismissively, and Revan-  _ smiles, _ though it looks too cracked to be anywhere near happy.

“I know,” she says, quietly, not looking away from Malak. “That’s why I’m saying it. I  _ won’t _ listen to you, Vitiate. I’m not your pawn and I intend to destroy everything you’ve ever built. But- If you promise to leave Malak alone, I’ll stop blocking you out of my head.”

“Acceptable, for now. Though you would be wise to learn all you can from me before you seek to destroy me.” Vitiate steps away from the two of them, vanishing into the shadows again, though his cold presence remains, holding Malak trapped still. “Sleep well, young acolyte - you’ll need your strength again soon.”

The dark throne room dissolves around them and Malak jerks himself back before Revan can sense just how tightly they’re tangled together in the Force, snapping his eyes open and dragging in a shaking breath. But Revan hasn’t stirred, other than she’s reached one hand out towards him, bridging the space between their bedrolls. Malak reaches out and rests his hand over hers, swallowing hard.

“Oh, Revan,” he whispers, mindful of the others not far from them. He can’t get her words out of his head:  _ you’re the other half of my soul. _ As though he doesn’t feel the same way, as though he hasn’t known that since he was nineteen. As though he wouldn’t sacrifice himself to Vitiate to save her, without even thinking about it. “What have you done?”

He doesn’t sleep for the rest of the night.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoooooly fuck this chapter was extremely difficult to write, until i changed some plans around. the latter half of it gets preeeetty dark towards the end, so fair warning. there's a lot of mind fuckery going on here. 
> 
> next chapter isn't going to have a lot of Revan or Malak in it, but we aren't leaving them alone for very long - however, next chapter will introduce my Exile, which i am very excited about!
> 
> don't forget to leave a comment letting me know what you think <3

Revan wakes up slowly, body heavy and mind slow from sleep, and for a moment, she’s confused - her whole body aches, especially one side of her face, and when she blearily lifts one hand to brush against her cheek she feels bandages. She turns her head, sees Malak’s bedroll - he’s laying there on his back, eyes closed, chest rising and falling rhythmically, but in the familiar patterns of breathing exercises they learned in the creche, not sleep - and suddenly it all comes rushing back.

The stronghold, the labs, Incendius,  _ Kreyik, _ her injury, Malak’s comfort…

The dream.

_ Dream _ is the wrong word, she thinks, but it wasn’t a vision either. It’d been incredibly, unequivocally real. Alone in her worst nightmare, until Vitiate showed her Malak just to taunt her.

She doesn’t know that he’d go after the most important person in her life. But she doesn’t know that he  _ won’t, _ either, and she can’t take that chance. She  _ can’t. _

She doesn’t know what kind of Jedi that makes her, but Malak is the only person she can’t sacrifice. She  _ won’t _ lose him, no matter what she has to sacrifice to save him. If keeping him safe from the greatest evil she’s ever seen means giving herself away to it piece by piece, then, well…

Revan has always done what she has to do, no matter how much it hurts, and fallen apart after. This will be no different. (She’s always had Malak there to pick up the pieces later.)

“Malak?” she says quietly - or tries to say, at least. Her voice is hoarse and scratchy, and her throat burns (though it’s more manageable than last night, at least), so the word is barely more than a rasp. He hears her, though, eyes flying open, and he sits up and turns to look at her more quickly than she’d expect.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, worry and relief vying for supremacy in his voice, and she smiles, just a little, because moving her face too much still hurts. “You’ve been asleep for almost ten hours.”

Revan props herself up on her elbow, carefully, then when nothing starts spinning she sits the rest of the way up. She’s  _ sore _ all over, and her throat aches, and her face - well, she no longer feels like that entire side of her head is burning off, which is an improvement. But her mind is clear (for now, at least) and she feels rested for the first time in days. “I’m alright,” she says, can’t stop herself from smiling wider (and then grimacing) at the suspicion on Malak’s face. “Honestly. I feel better than I have in a while.”

And she  _ does, _ for the most part. There’s a tendril of cold at the edge of her thoughts and she knows what it is without having to think about it - she’d made a deal, after all. She tries not to think too much about it, because it’s not exactly  _ comfortable, _ knowing that her mortal enemy, who held her captive and tortured her and her closest friend for a month, who’s played every kind of mind game that exists with her, has free reign inside her head. But as long as she doesn’t focus on that lingering whisper of Vitiate’s presence, she can nearly forget him entirely.

Malak is looking at her strangely. “Do you,” he says, more quietly than she’d expected. “Not hearing any extra whispers?”

Revan frowns, can’t stop her muscles from stiffening. “What are you talking about?” she asks, carefully. She hasn’t told anyone about Vitiate talking to her - hasn’t she? Did she say something last night? Everything turns fuzzy after she collapsed.

There’s a pause. She can  _ feel _ Malak hesitating, almost like he’s studying her, and she shifts, finds herself wishing for her mask (for all the good it would do; he doesn’t need to see her face to read her) for the first time ever: Malak has always been the only person she didn’t need to hide herself from.

“I was in your dream last night.” The words are rushed, jumbled, and he looks away from her, something twisting across his face and the Force too fast for her to make out. “With Vitiate.”

For some unfathomable reason, the first thing Revan thinks is  _ oh Force, he heard how much I care about him. _

The first thing she  _ feels _ is shame.

“I-” Revan looks away, stares into the jungle, the morning’s thick fog wafting against her face and cooling her cheeks. “I had to protect you. I can’t just-” She stops, a little helplessly, feels something hot and choking well up in her throat. Tears? But what does she have to cry about?

“Why didn’t you  _ tell me?” _ Malak asks, and his voice cracks, and for a moment she can feel an overwhelming wave of  _ emotion _ (pain, fear, hurt, and something fiercely protective she can’t name) spilling into the Force between them before he abruptly snaps his shields up so high and hard she winces from the recoil. “We’re supposed to be  _ partners, _ Revan. That means  _ trusting _ each other. You can’t say you care and then just-” His voice is shaking nearly and when she chances a look at him he’s staring at his lap, one hand clenched into a fist, blue eyes damp. “I would’ve kept you safe,” he whispers.

Revan-

Revan can’t  _ breathe. _

“I-” she starts, again, then stops, fumbling. Her throat feels like it’s sewn shut and she can’t get in a full breath, and the icy feeling spreading through her chest has nothing to do with Vitiate. “You were already going through so much, I didn’t want to make anything worse. I thought I could handle it.”

“That’s not your choice to  _ make, _ Rev,” Malak says, choked, and something about the nickname - something he’d called her when they were children in the Temple together, before they’d ever heard of war, back when the Sith were a bogeyman the crechemaster used to keep them in their beds at night, before she’d learned what it felt like to twist the Force, to twist  _ life itself, _ into a noose to kill - makes something inside her  _ snap,  _ and she realizes she was wrong. She’s not Revan the General, the hero, the legend - not really.

She’s just Revan, the little girl who crawled sobbing into Alek’s bunk one night because she was terrified of the monsters lurking in the Dark behind her eyelids. The monsters within her mind.

There are tears on her cheeks. Revan swipes them away with the back of her hand, pretends she doesn’t notice how it shakes. “I don’t owe you an explanation,” she snaps, and she  _ hates _ herself for the sharpness in her voice, and for how it doesn’t hide the fear. This is Malak - this is  _ Alek, _ her Alek, why can’t she stop hurting him? Why can’t she protect him from herself? (What if he leaves her alone?) 

“Friendships aren’t about  _ owing,” _ Malak says sharply, and she can feel his gaze on the side of his face. She deliberately doesn’t look at him, but she can still tell he’s crying. That she’s  _ making  _ him cry. “Damn it all, Revan, this isn’t one of your  _ equations, _ I care about you!”

Revan’s mask is in her hand. She doesn’t know when she called it. Her knuckles are going white from how tightly she’s gripping it. “It’s my fault Vitiate hurt you!”

The words echo, and she claps her free hand over her mouth - which sends a bright starburst of pain through her - as though that could stop it, as though she could pull them back in, as though that would change the fact that everyone in their camp heard. She pushes to her feet too fast, the world spinning around her for a moment, or maybe that’s just the tears in her eyes, and looks down at Malak.

He’s sitting on his bedroll still, looks nearly stricken, something pained in his eyes. “Revan-”

Revan doesn’t wait to hear what he has to say. She does what she’s always done when she feels trapped.

She runs.

She can’t see where she’s going - it’s starting to rain, the droplets splashing against her bare skin and hands, and she’s crying harder and harder, unable to stop - so she relies on the Force to weave around trees and avoid the animals running past her and under her feet. She runs until her bruised throat burns so badly she can’t breathe, and then she runs further, until her toe catches on something and then she’s falling, her mask dropping out of her hands as she tries to catch herself.

Revan crashes to the damp ground, knees and hands and elbows grinding into the dirt, and it’s like everything hits her at once - she pushes herself up and hangs her head as a wave of shame and guilt and pain rolls through her and over her (and she can feel Vitiate laughing in the back of her mind, and bitterly she wonders if he’s enjoying the show). They all  _ heard her, _ they know what she’s done, and Malak is crying because of her, and  _ he _ knows about the deal she’s made. She  _ hurt _ him.

_ You’re the other half of my soul, _ she’d said, in a dream where she thought he’d have no chance of hearing. And now she’s hurt him worse than Vitiate ever did.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers into the rain. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

_ I just wanted to keep you safe. _

She doesn’t know how long she kneels there; long enough that her clothes are plastered to her skin, that she’s started to shiver, that her knees are starting to hurt. Then there’s a voice in the distance, not far away. “Revan?”

It’s Bastila. Revan doesn’t answer, but she reaches out into the Force, finds Bastila’s signature and nudges it gently, like she would do with Malak - it’s more difficult, but it only takes a moment of focus, and then she can sense Bastila coming towards her.

She doesn’t move. She doesn’t have the energy yet.

Bastila crouches down next to her. “Revan?” she says again, softly. “You shouldn’t be alone out here.”

Revan  _ intends _ to tell the other Jedi she’ll be fine, she can protect herself, even if she is injured. Instead, what comes out is, “He’s in my head.”

She clamps her mouth shut (painfully), but it’s too late.

“Who is?”

“Vitiate,” Revan murmurs, because she doesn’t have the energy to keep hiding this. Not from Malak, and not from Bastila, who offered herself up as someone to talk to their first night here. “The Emperor. He’s been- talking to me, breaking past all my shields, since we landed on Dromund Kaas. He’s trying to turn me to the Dark Side,” she admits for the first time. 

It feels strange to say it out loud, and more than a little terrifying - too much like admitting weakness, like standing before the Jedi High Council with her face bare. But Bastila doesn’t back away, just reaches out, puts a hand on Revan’s shoulder.

“Well, then he’s a fool,” the younger Jedi says, gentle but firm, surprisingly confident. “You’re a strong Jedi, Revan, no matter what the Jedi Council may think. It is… very easy to judge your decisions when we weren’t part of your war. I’m not so certain any of them could say they would’ve done differently in your place - I certainly can’t.”

The words are supposed to be a comfort, Bastila clearly intends them as such. But they just make Revan feel hollow in the pit of her stomach. “He’s succeeding,” she whispers, barely audible.

Soon, she will get to her feet and buckle on her mask, and soon she will return to her troops and make plans - it doesn’t matter that she’s injured, she can walk, she can fight, and what they stole from Incendius’ stronghold won’t be enough to convince the Senate and the Jedi to fight. Soon, she will return to Revan, the Supreme Commander.

But she has been shattering in slow motion since Vitiate first captured her, and for a moment, for just a moment, Revan lets herself feel the break.

“Revan,” Bastila says, and Revan looks up at the other Jedi, meets her fierce grey eyes. She’s surprised that Bastila doesn’t look afraid or- anything like the Jedi Council would, had she admitted that to them. “Remember what you said to me, shortly after I met you? I asked you how you escaped from Vitiate.”

Revan remembers. “I said I refused to fail,” she says quietly, voice hoarse, and pushes herself more upright, sitting back on her heels. “I had to succeed, I had no other choice.”

“So refuse to fall,” Bastila says, a strange urgency in her voice. “Refuse to fall the same way you refused to let Mandalore the Ultimate defeat you. Don’t let the Emperor win.” 

Bastila is leaning forward as she speaks, and a piece of her dark brown hair has pulled free from the neat tails she keeps it in, falling forward and plastering against her face. Without really thinking, Revan reaches up with one rain-cold hand, brushes the wayward lock of hair back and tucks it behind Bastila’s ear, leaving a smudge of dirt along the younger woman’s cheekbone. 

“Don’t let him win,” she repeats, slowly, and looks down at her mask, eyes tracing over the familiar painted patterns, even if the shape isn’t the same. Every time she’d started to break during the Mandalorian Wars, she’d put on the mask and clung to its solidity until it was her own; she’d gone to Alek and borrowed his strength until hers returned. She still has a mask. She still has Alek, as long as she fixes this. And she has Bastila now, all the other Jedi’s fire and certainty that Revan has begun to lose.

Slowly, she looks up, meets Bastila’s eyes again (the younger woman is blushing faintly), and then, although it stretches the burn on her jaw painfully, she smiles.

“I haven’t lost a battle in over a year,” she says. “I don’t intend to start now.”  _ Do you hear me, Vitiate? _

And she pushes herself to her feet and secures the mask over her face.

~

“I have a plan,” Revan announces when she walks back into her team’s camp, Bastila on her heels. She doesn’t look at Malak - they’ll talk later, but for now, she has orders to give. She wants to get the Senate’s information and get off this world as quickly as possible, before Vitiate has more time to twist her thoughts, or worse, do the same to Malak. “Most of you aren’t going to like it.”

“Comforting,” Carth mutters, and she finds herself wondering what they expect her to say. His squad of soldiers are looking at her with varying expressions on their faces, ranging from eagerness to determination to trepidation. “You shouldn’t be wearing that mask, sir, it’s going to make your injury worse.”

In truth, the mask  _ is _ painful to wear; the bandages help and the kolto has a cooling, numbing property, but it’s a bad burn. The more she wears her mask, the more she exacerbates the burn, the worse it’s going to scar - she’d probably make it out with only a faint one if she got into a kolto tank now, but as it is… the scar is going to be noticeable.

But Revan hasn’t spoken to more than a handful of people without her mask since she started wearing one. No one’s going to be seeing her face if she can avoid it, and she  _ needs _ the mask’s protection. The pain and the scarring are just the price she’ll have to pay for that protection and security right now.

So she dismisses the last part of Carth’s statement with a wave of her hand. “The Sith know hostile forces are here. It’s been over twelve hours since our attack on the compound; we killed a high-ranking Sith and destroyed quite a bit of his research. If they find our ship in the jungle, we’ll be trapped here indefinitely with no real way to contact our fleet.”

“I could rig up an emergency transmitter,” the tech, Denon, says, and Revan nods to acknowledge that. “It’d be like shooting up a flare, though,  _ everyone _ would know where we are.”

“I want to avoid that,” Revan says firmly. “So I’m sending the entire squad, with Carth in command, back to protect our ship and ensure we have an escape route.”

There’s a pause.

“Sir,” one soldier says tentatively, “you and General Malak are injured, and we lost Commander Kreyik. Shouldn’t we retreat and make a new plan?”

Revan lets a trace of a bite enter her voice when she responds. “The mission isn’t complete, soldier,” she says nearly-sharply, and he sits back, chastised. “Do any of you really think that what little we downloaded from that stronghold will be enough to convince the Senate and the Jedi Council to go to war?” She looks around the group. “You all remember how they acted against the Mandalorians.”

There’s quiet murmurings, and by their expressions and the discontent in the Force, she knows the point is made. “What’s your plan, sir?” It’s the same soldier as before.

“Malak, Bastila, and I will continue on to Kaas City on our own and infiltrate it. I overheard some Sith soldiers talking while I was scouting out that stronghold, and I think I know a good place to find information.” The rain is  _ icy _ cold, and Revan has to stifle a shiver as droplets worm their way down the back of her neck and spine. Wordlessly, Malak is suddenly beside her, offering out her cloak - she’d left it behind when she fled earlier. Their hands brush as she takes it from him, and it feels a little like absolution.

Revan pulls her cloak on, the extra warmth a relief, and tugs the hood up over her drenched hair. “Maintain comm silence unless it’s an emergency, and don’t be afraid to leave if you have to - we can steal an Imperial ship if necessary. Understood?”

There’s several assenting nods and words, and as the squad starts to break down their camp, Revan digs into a medpack and takes shelter under a tent canopy, squints into a piece of polished durasteel and pulls off her mask and attempts to peel the bandages off her face. She needs to change them and the kolto, especially since she’s going to be wearing her mask.

The durasteel warps her reflection and between the water dripping into her face from her hair and her cold fingers, she can’t get a good grip on the medical tape, and Revan mutters a swear she’d picked up from a Mandalorian during some bloody campaign fairly early on.

“Let me help with that,” she hears, and then Malak kneels down next to her.

Revan looks over at him, and suddenly she can’t find the words. So she reaches out to him in the Force, pushes a wave of emotions at him: the fear, the regret, the care, the pain. It’s an apology, of sorts, a wordless one. “I-” she starts, and then stops, shakes her head a little.

Malak smiles slightly. “I know,” he says. “Me too.”

For a moment, he reaches out and cups both her cold hands in his, and then he neatly, carefully peels off the bandaging on her face, makes quick work of spreading more kolto across the burn and redoing the bandages. She closes her eyes as he works, just lets herself soak in the comfort of it, and the knowledge that she hasn’t lost him, he’s forgiven her, they’re okay.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, when he’s finished, opening her eyes again, and she doesn’t just mean for the kolto.

She knows he knows.

It’s another day on foot, moving quickly, to reach the outskirts of Kaas City. The three of them don’t talk much, and even Vitiate remains quiet - Revan can sense him watching, observing. She has to wonder if he’ll alert his Sith to her plan, but she almost doesn’t think so; he feels like he’s assessing her. 

Revan wonders how much he’s willing to sacrifice to take her measure.

They spend a cold, wet night in the jungle outside the city; Revan has a hard time sleeping until Malak puts an arm around her and tugs her against his chest. For the body heat, he explains, since they can’t risk a fire. Bastila joins them, reluctantly and her face flushed, but even she can’t deny that it helps.

Revan thinks the comfort of the contact is a better shield against the rain than the warmth. 

The next morning, in the faint light before dawn - not that the planet ever seems to see true sunlight - Revan quietly tells Bastila and Malak her plan.

“The Imperial soldiers I overheard talked about a Citadel,” she explains. “It seems to be somewhere Sith gather, and I suspect it’ll have a wealth of information available. I don’t know much about it, though.”

Bastila nods. “How will we get in?” she asks. Behind them, Malak is redoing the bandages on the burn on his chest.

_ “I _ am going to disguise myself as a Sith,” Revan states calmly, and ignores the way both of them tense up at that. Malak swears under his breath. “Malak will follow me, in the shadows, and Bastila, I want you to search the rest of the city, map as much of it as you can. We’ll need a rough map of the layout eventually.”

“Why don’t you have Malak do that?” Basila asks - Revan suspects she’s either a bit resentful of being given the “easy” task, or concerned for the two injured people taking on the more dangerous one, or both. “He’s injured.”

“Malak and I can communicate through the Force,” Revan admits. “We have- a bond of some kind, I think. Obviously, the Council doesn’t know.”

Bastila looks  _ surprised, _ but she nods, understanding crossing her face - the ability to communicate clearly in total silence will be better. “And why must he sneak around? If you’re going to be acting like a Sith - which I’m not certain is the smartest idea, given what you told me recently-” and Revan winces at that, though the expression is hidden behind her mask, “-why can’t he?”

Revan taps her mask. “I highly doubt an Empire outside the known galaxy would recognize this,” she says. Bastila can’t argue with that.

They split up on the edge of Kaas City and Revan creeps through the shadows in the pre-dawn light; the city is huge and surprisingly clean, even the alleys between the tall buildings. The streets are wide and smooth, the city itself mostly done in blacks and greys with red accents, everything incredibly uniform. Even though it’s early morning, there are patrols of Imperial soldiers out, and probe droids move through the streets, scanning and recording. In the outer residential areas there are a few citizens out walking. Nearly all of them are humans.

It’s strange - in the Republic, humans may be the majority, but Coruscant is alive and bustling with thousands of different species and cultures, turning the planet into an amalgamation of the rest of the galaxy, which makes sense, given its status as Republic capital. But Kaas City - supposedly, according to the data they’d found in Incenius’ stronghold, the major metropolitan area on the capital planet of the Sith Empire - has none of that feel. The few nonhumans Revan sees wear slave collars or trail along behind people with more authoritative airs.

The only exception to this rule comes into play as she makes her way deeper into the city. She sees a few people of the same species Incendius had been, all of them with strong presences in the Force, all carrying lightsabers. More Sith are in the streets than she’d expected, which is both a blessing and a curse.

But finally, Revan manages to corner one near her size in a side alley, kill them with a sneak attack. “Keep watch for me, would you?” she asks Malak quietly, and then neatly strips the Sith of their robes - black and red, with a hooded cape that straps on over the shoulders - and dresses in them, transferring over her own gloves and armor pieces. The hood fits nearly perfectly around her mask, the cape hits her ankles, and the robes themselves have just enough weight to them she can feel it. They feel… steady, almost. Like her mask.

It’s morbid to think that way about clothing she’s stolen from a corpse, Revan knows, but she still can’t help feeling far more prepared for her mission now.

“What do you think?” she asks.

Malak looks away from the mouth of the alley where he’s standing guard, looks her over. “You look like a Sith,” he says quietly, and she can’t quite decipher the feeling she senses from him.

“That  _ is _ the point,” she says, wry, but he doesn’t smile. “Let’s go, I want to get this over with.”

It’s not as easy as she’d hoped to get to the Citadel, though. It’s a massive building, literally built into the side of a mountain at the exact center of Kaas City; the city itself curves around it, but doesn’t get close, as though it’s afraid of whatever the Citadel is. Revan isn’t challenged as she walks up to the railing separating the overlook from the long drop between this part of the city and the Citadel building. 

No one has even looked twice at her since she donned the Sith robes - she’s made sure to walk with all the haughty confidence Incendius had had, and people had actually gotten out of her way. There’s a speeder stop nearby, and she can likely use her disguise to take it without being challenged, but Malak, following her in the shadows, might have a harder time.

Revan looks down into the empty space, thoughtfully, and sees the glimmer of light against metal - lower levels, perhaps? She hates how little she knows about the city.  _ You might be able to sneak in from below, _ she tells Malak silently.  _ I’m sure there’s more than one way to get in there. _

She feels Malak’s assent before he moves further away from her.  _ Be careful, Revan, _ he says, deliberately pushes concern at her.  _ Don’t do anything reckless. _

_ When have I ever? _ she asks lightly, and pushes off the railing and makes for the speeder station.

He doesn’t feel reassured.

The speeder is automated, and it requires a fee to use; thankfully, Revan finds a credit stick in the pockets of her stolen robes, and the speeder takes off, crosses the wide gap and lands at a similar station just outside the Citadel building. The gap itself is wide enough a Jedi would be hard-pressed to make the jump, even with the Force - to assault the Citadel they’ll have to bring in troop transports right up to its doorstep.

The Citadel is  _ huge. _

It’s at least as large as the Dark Temple, possibly even bigger, and staffed by more Imperial soldiers; they aren’t patrolling, really, just standing guard at every other intersection and at all the doors. Those few who aren’t already at perfect attention snap to when she passes, which is- interesting. She can’t tell if it’s a sign of respect or of fear.

Revan passes several Sith walking through the halls, some bare-faced, some wearing half or full masks like she is - a couple younger ones, padawan-aged, actively skirt out of her way, while the others either ignore her or nod in acknowledgement. Not a single one of them seem to realize she’s a Jedi in disguise.

_ They can feel your power, _ Vitiate murmurs, and Revan forces herself not to throw up shields, grits her teeth and ignores him. She may have to put up with his voice in her head, but that doesn’t mean she has to listen.

Most of the doors and branches in the hall seem to lead to personal quarters - she can hear training of some kind coming from behind several, and she passes more than one Sith giving her a wary eye when she gets too close to following them down a hallway. She takes the implied hint and leaves those particular passages alone - she’ll have to find some other way to figure out what’s down them.

Revan continues to follow the main paths through the building, avoiding the turbolifts scattered throughout - she doesn’t know where they lead, and which ones to avoid. In a way, this would be so much easier if she was sneaking around.

On that thought, she casts her mind out for Malak, finds him near enough to talk to again.  _ Sneak around down below for a bit, _ she tells him.  _ I can’t figure out where I can and can’t go yet. _

_ I was already planning on it, _ he answers, and she smiles, just the barest trace, behind her mask. Of course he was, he always knows what she needs.  _ Did you need anything, or are you just trying to micromanage? _

_ I do not micromanage, _ Revan responds irately, and there’s a wash of amusement from him: he’s teasing.  _ Is this really the time for jokes? _

For a minute there’s no response, and Revan has to fight to keep her pace steady.  _ It’s really  _ kriffing _ creepy down here, Revan. I’m pretty sure I just saw a ghost. _

_ Boo, _ she says acerbically, projecting a sharp mental prod. She can almost sense Malak tripping over his own feet.

_ Not funny. _

Revan smiles, can’t stifle the warm curl of fondness that settles into her chest.  _ You’re the one who started it, _ she points out.  _ I’ve been trying to take this seriously, like you asked me to- _

She rounds a corner, paying too much attention to Malak’s voice in her head and not enough to her surroundings, and crashes straight into another Sith, hard, stumbles back and into the wall. For a moment they’re both frozen - the Sith is younger, in simple robes, and his eyes have gone wide, a surprising amount of fear spilling from him into the Force.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” he stumbles out, and at the same time she feels a worried brush from Malak.

_ Revan? _

She ignores him, summons Incendius’ haughty arrogance and pins the boy with a fierce gaze she’s sure he can feel. “Watch where you’re going, apprentice,” she snaps coldly, and the boy pales more.

“Please don’t tell my Master,” he says, and Revan almost feels a surge of pity for him.

Then there’s a laugh in the back of her mind.  _ This weakling child will never be Sith, _ Vitiate hums.  _ Better to end his existence now than let him suffer at the hands of the unfortunate Lord who chose him. A true Sith would never beg. _

For a moment, Revan can’t  _ breathe, _ jaw clenched tight to keep from snarling aloud. “... my Lord?” the boy asks again, clearly afraid to leave without being dismissed, and she forces out a long exhale.

“Just get out of my sight,” she says finally, and strides off as quickly as she can without obviously rushing.  _ I won’t do your damn dirty work, Vitiate, especially not when it includes killing children. _

A chuckle.  _ The boy is only two years younger than you were when you went to war; he is hardly a child. _

Revan grits her teeth. She’s  _ not _ having this conversation.

_ What’s going on? _ Malak asks her, and she shakes her head a little, sends an absent pulse of reassurance before shielding their connection lightly. She needs to  _ focus; _ that could’ve been disastrous.

_ Hardly. You have the bearing of a true Sith, and the obvious power to back it up, _ Vitiate tells her.

_ I didn’t ask. _

_ Anyone less powerful than you is beneath you; take no notice of them. Show deference to those more powerful than you, but do not grovel. Treat your equals with the respect you would show an opposing general on the battlefield, and trust no one, especially not your master and your apprentice. _ Vitiate is being- serious? Honest? He almost sounds like he’s trying to teach her.

_ I didn’t ask, _ Revan says again, gritting her teeth, wishing she could just- block him out. Not that it would do any good, and she has to protect Malak, but still.  _ If you’re determined to talk to me, the least you could do is tell me where the archives are. _

For a moment, she thinks he’s finally decided to  _ shut up _ and leave her alone; she lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and picks up the pace a little, passing by another set of Imperial soldiers, who both salute.

_ Take the hallway on your left. The lift at the end - up one level. You will be allowed entrance. _

Revan nearly trips over her own feet.

_ Why are you  _ helping _ me? _ she finds herself asking, even as she follows the Emperor’s directions - and what has she come to, the fact that she’s having a  _ conversation with the Sith Emperor. _ Even Malak wouldn’t react well to this, she’s sure.

_ Because I know you, Revan, and I have nothing to fear from you. _

Well, she’ll just have to see what he thinks about that when she puts her lightsaber through his heart.

When the lift lets her out on the next level up, Revan finds herself in a hallway that leads to a set of open double doors, guarded by a pair of troops who snap to attention as she approaches. “Good luck on your research, my lord,” one of them murmurs. Revan doesn’t acknowledge them. She  _ suspects _ they’d be considered beneath her, according to Vitiate.

Not that she cares what he thinks - quite the opposite, in fact. But it’s true she doesn’t know anything about the Sith culture, and if she’s discovered now she’s more than likely dead. She can’t fight her way out on her own, especially not injured; though her various burns feel much better, all it would take is one firm hit to the face and she’d be helpless from the pain.

The library is  _ huge. _ It’s mostly filled with holocrons, more holocrons than she’s ever seen in one place, but there are the more common holobooks on shelves, as well as collections of bound flimsi and even tablets of stone with old aurebesh inscriptions. A part of her _ itches _ to use her psychometry on the nearest tablet - it looks ancient, and who knows what history it’s seen.

But that’s not why she’s here.

She forces herself to ignore the shelves and settles in at a computer terminal, inserts a datastick and sets it to downloading all the information in the databanks on Imperial history, culture, and warfare. Not all of it will be useful, but she needs to study everything she can if she’s going to fight them - after all, they have a standing army and a fleet, not just Sith. And while the Sith may have Force powers Revan doesn’t know much about, she can handle lightsabers.

It takes several minutes to download all the information, and Revan finds her gaze wandering around the part of the library around her. She can’t quite stop looking at a nearby shelf of holocrons - the Jedi use them to store important information they can’t risk anyone else getting their hands on, like the lists of Force-sensitive children, or to hold imprints of personalities, to preserve the teachings and memories of influential and important Jedi. What secrets could the Sith store in theirs?

Maybe she could take a couple, open them when she has the time.

Once the terminal alerts her that the download is finished, Revan snags the datastick and tucks it away, crosses the room to the holocrons, a little larger than fist-sized boxes floating above their stands. They’re made with a similar brassy metal and colored kyber crystals, like the Jedi ones, and glow from within with their own soft light, but where most Jedi holocrons are blue, these are red.

Revan reaches out and takes one.

It’s warm in her hand, pulsing faintly like her lightsaber crystals do when she takes the sabers apart for maintenance, and she can feel it humming in the Force, reaching out to her. It would be so easy to just close her eyes and  _ twist _ the Force, to open the holocron and hear its secrets-

She shakes herself, hard. This isn’t the time or place. (It might be her imagination, but the holocron seems almost  _ disappointed.) _ So she tucks the holocron away in a belt pouch near the datastick, adjusts her mask and the hood of her cloak, and turns on her heel. She’s gotten what she came for - now she needs to find Malak and get out before someone realizes she doesn’t belong. After all, it can only be a matter of time until one of those Imperial patrols or probe droids discovers a very dead, very naked Sith in an alleyway.

Revan takes the turbolift back down to the main level and starts off in the same direction she’d been heading; she’d taken the time to download a map of the Citadel while in the library, and she references her memory of it now, absently sends the image to Malak.  _ Where are you? _ she asks him.  _ I’m on my way to meet you now, I’ve got everything we need. _

Instead of an answer, there’s a bolt of sharp terror, a desperate  _ run!, _ and then the connection between them goes dead silent.

No. Not silent.

It’s  _ gone. _

She can still feel the bond, but it’s like it tethers to nothing at all; where her best friend, her partner, should be is just a yawning emptiness, like the gaping holes of unfilled graves she’d dug for her fellow Jedi after one terrible battle very early on in the war. Malak is alive (he has to be, he  _ has _ to be, the bond would’ve snapped back and whiplashed against her mind with the recoil if he was dead), but he’s no longer present in the Force. Which means-

Oh no. Oh no, oh Force,  _ no, _ not again, not again.

Revan runs.

When they’d been Vitiate’s captives, the Sith torturers and overseers who’d interacted with her and Malak the most had had a few metal collars, seemingly based on the technology in neural disruptors but improved and perfected to the point where they could completely cut a person off from the Force. Malak had been kept in one frequently, and she’d had to get used to the horrible nothingness in the space where he should’ve been. It’d been its own kind of torture - the inability to talk to him, to even reassure herself that he was  _ alright, _ and even though the bond’s existence meant he was still alive she’d never been able to be completely sure, because what happens if someone dies while they’re cut off from the Force?

She’d managed to get a vague direction from Malak’s projection, before it cut off, and she follows that instinct now, ignoring everyone in her way - most simply step aside, though she sees several Sith looking after her with confused or concerned expressions. None of them follow her, for which she’s grateful, but she can’t focus on them.

They have Malak.  _ They have Malak. _ It’s all she can think.

There’s the sound of loud, laughing voices around a corner, and Revan forces herself to slow to a stop and then glance around the wall. The hallway opens up into a larger room, lit by white and red lights, and she counts eight people, all Sith, standing in a loose huddle in the center, talking among themselves.

“... I doubt he’s even a Lord,” one of them says, mockingly.

“Oh, look at you, all high and mighty. You were just an apprentice until a couple of weeks ago. Get one promotion and quarters in the Citadel and suddenly you think you’re the second coming of Naga Sadow.” The second voice is even more derisive than the first.

“Oh,  _ please,” _ the first woman sniffs, “you know I’m a Tulak Hord woman.”

_ “Ladies,” _ a third voice says - this one quite clearly coming from a Sith woman a few years older than Revan, one of the reddish-brown-skinned Sith Purebloods the library had talked about. “No duels - verbal or otherwise - in front of our new guest. A spy from a lower Sith he may be, but he is still one of ours, and we will treat him appropriately.”

“Yes, Darth Rivitz,” the first says, and Revan frowns.  _ Rivitz. _ Why does that sound familiar?

The guards she’d killed, the ones patrolling the stronghold. They’d mentioned the name, something about a power play and trying for some kind of Council seat, whatever that means exactly. Assuming a similar structure to the Jedi, it means she’s powerful - and as scared for Malak as Revan is, she’s not sure she should risk getting so close to someone powerful. What if this Rivitz recognizes her?

Except then the circle breaks apart slightly, giving her a view of what they’re gathered around, and all those thoughts disappear.

Malak is on his knees, hands bound behind his back, a silvery-grey collar around his neck, and Revan’s vision goes white with anger and bone-chilling  _ fear. _

(Revan is huddled against the back wall of her cell, in the only direct spot of light the dim wall sconce provides; in the corners of her vision, the shadows shift and twist and writhe like living things, and there’s something cold and crawling creeping across her exposed skin, sifting through the layers of her thoughts, tunneling past her shields like roots through the dirt. She’s exhausted herself trying to keep it -  _ him _ \- out, but she just can’t build new shields fast enough to keep up with how quickly he breaks the old ones. She’s had no choice but to let the Sith Emperor rummage through her mind like she’d look through a pile of gear for anything useful.

The door to her cell opens, and Revan looks up, squinting in the bright wash of light from outside. It’s too soon to be her evening gruel - the only way she can tell time in this infernal place - and the Sith interrogators have already had their fun with her today, asking questions she refuses to answer, even though it  _ hurts. _ She will  _ not _ betray the Republic or the Jedi.

But standing in the door is the main Sith who handles her torture, a cheerful smile on his face. “We’re going to try something new,” he says, and then steps aside, and two soldiers shove something down the stairs into the cell.

No, not something - someone.

Malak.

His hands are cuffed behind his back and there’s a collar on his throat, which must be the reason she can’t feel him in the Force, and his face is bruised and bloody, his clothes torn and singed.  _ “Malak,” _ she breathes, leaves the pool of light to kneel next to him, one hand ghosting over a wicked scrape across one cheek.

“Revan, no,” he croaks, hoarse, and then a wave of Force slams her back against the wall, holds her in place.

“Let’s try a question,” the Sith says. “Something simple, to start. Why was the Republic investigating the Unknown Regions?”

“Go fuck yourself,” Revan snarls, struggling against the power holding her against the wall. “I’ve got a lightsaber you can borrow, I bet if we shoved it far enough up there the blade would come out your head.”

“Brave, but crude,” the Sith muses. “Very well.” The Force holding her vanishes, and she collapses onto the floor, barely manages to catch herself, and then there’s the smell of ozone in the air and Malak is  _ screaming. _

Soon, Revan is screaming too.)

_ “Get the Sith hells away from him,” _ Revan growls, her feet carrying her around the corner and into the room before she’s fully aware she’s moved.

“What’s this?” Rivitz asks, turning, the other Sith with her spinning to face Revan as well, half of them igniting lightsabers as they do, all too close to Malak, and she is going to  _ kill them. _ “Another spy? No, I don’t think so. You may be dressed like us, but you’re no Sith, though you’re powerful enough to be one - and angry enough, I daresay. What a delightful amount of passion you have.”

“You’re right,” Revan says, low. “I’m no Sith. I’m a Jedi Knight, and I’m going to kill you for touching him.”

_ “Revan,” _ Malak hisses, shakes his head, but she ignores him. There’s a wall of rage and terror rising in her chest, a roaring in her ears threatening to drown out everything else, and her chest heaves with too-fast breaths, and yet she is  _ still _ as the Force boils and whirls in a storm around her.

“A Jedi?” one of the other Sith says. “Those are just stories. You don’t look all that threatening.”

Revan bares her teeth behind the mask.  _ Good, _ Vitiate’s cold, silken voice says.  _ Use that rage, turn it against those who have taken what is yours. They have set hands on that which is precious to you, and they deserve to die for it. _

Another of the Sith laughs. “I can smell her fear. I don’t think she’ll make much sport for us, but  _ this _ one looks promising.” They put a hand on Malak’s head, stroke a tattoo, and Malak jerks away, and Revan-

She lifts a hand.

Her vision goes white with a rush of pure  _ hatred _ and the Force surges through her, and she can feel it  _ leap _ out of her hand and slam into the Sith touching Malak, and there’s a  _ crack _ and the Sith flies backwards into the far wall, a black scorch mark on their chest, and they’re not moving.

A strange, cold calm comes over her then, and Revan walks forward, every step even, leaves her lightsabers on her belt, and the Sith are spreading out and coming towards her (but they’re away from Malak, they aren’t touching him, they aren’t going to hurt him again), and she gathers the Force into her hands, cups the lifeforce of the two nearest Sith in her palms, and clenches them into fists. And they fall, like puppets with their strings cut.

Revan does not smile.

Three Sith are on her now, lightsabers flashing, and Revan ducks around the red blades, calls her violet saber into her left hand and curls her right one into a claw, freezing one Sith in place, and she presses her saber emitter to the woman’s stomach and ignites the blade, jerks it up in a straight line to her throat, turns it off again.

One Sith is trying to run. Revan tosses her saber to her right hand, ignites the blade, and hurls it through the air after them, and then spins to face the two Sith left - the original woman who had spoken and Rivitz. The young lord looks terrified. Rivitz is  _ smiling. _

“Such power,” the Darth muses. “You know, it takes many Sith years to learn to properly use Force lightning, and yet you - a mere Jedi - can produce a strong enough bolt of it to kill. You  _ really _ are serving the wrong Order.”

Revan reaches out a hand without looking to catch her lightsaber as it spins back through the air to her, and hooks it back on her belt. A lightsaber is the weapon of a Jedi, but the Force is a weapon too. And right now, the Force is all she needs.

Rivitz hangs back, but the other Sith lunges forward and slashes with her lightsaber, coming straight down at her face. Somewhere behind her, Malak makes a strangled noise.

Revan doesn’t move. Behind her mask, she locks eyes with the young Sith.

And the lightsaber blade freezes in midair.

The Sith goes pale, eyes widening, tries to move, but her arm is frozen too, and Revan feels a vicious satisfaction spreading through her chest at the sight. These people tried to hurt Malak, tried to take them both captive again, and Revan  _ will not allow it. _

She reaches up with one hand and takes the Sith’s lightsaber from her hand, almost gently, twirls the blade in her hand once, and then plunges it into the girl’s chest.

“Why would I want to be a Sith?” Revan murmurs, speaking for the first time. “You’re all so weak.”

She drops the red saber, hears it clatter against the duracrete floor, and lifts her chin, pushing her shoulders back. The Force is  _ howling _ around her, and she’s the center of the maelstrom, the single still point. Rivitz draws a double-bladed lightsaber, the blades a glowing orange, like magma, spins it around her - it’s clear she knows what she’s doing with it.

But that doesn’t matter. Revan doesn’t intend to give her the chance to use it.

She thinks of her fight against Incendius, and as Rivitz starts to leap forward, Revan curls her finger and thumb into a claw, and the Force constricts around the Sith’s neck, lifting her just off the ground. She’s choking but her vibrant yellow eyes are full of defiance and hatred, and instead of reaching up to claw at her throat, Rivitz hurls her saber forward, as though she thinks she could break Revan’s concentration.

Revan twists her wrist instead, and the Sith’s neck snaps audibly. The saber hilt sails past her head and hits the wall on the far side of the room.

And then there’s no more Sith.

For a moment, Revan just stands there, chest heaving, and then she turns - Malak is still on the floor, and she steps up behind him and twists the Force to tear off the binders and the collar. Immediately, his presence snaps back into place in their bond, and she has to close her eyes against the flood of relief, though there’s still that cold calm keeping her from really feeling much. She opens her eyes again, and steps forward, offers her hand to help Malak up.

And he flinches back.

In that instant, Revan registers the  _ horror _ in his eyes, and it feels like abruptly stepping back into herself - there are bodies all over the floor and oh, Force, she  _ did that, _ she did that with her own hatred, she didn’t even use her  _ lightsabers, _ and the Force is- she used  _ lightning. _

_ You did well, _ Vitiate says.

Revan makes a choked noise and staggers back, knees buckling, and collapses.

“Oh my gods,” she whispers, has to claw her mask from her face so she can retch onto the floor. Nothing much comes up but she can’t stop the dry heaves as the sickening realization of what she’s  _ done _ sinks into her soul. “Malak, I- I don’t-”

She can’t even  _ breathe. _

“Revan?” Malak asks, tentative, and she hates that there’s  _ fear _ in his voice. “What have you  _ done?” _

She doesn’t know. But it feels like something she can’t come back from.

“I have to get off this planet,” she says, hoarse, spits bile onto the floor and sits back onto her knees, lifts her head and makes eye contact with him. “Vitiate is- The longer I’m here the more of a danger I am.”

The wariness on Malak’s face slowly shifts into concern, and he gets to his feet, steps over to her. “We’ll get back to the team and return to the fleet, then,” he says, and offers her a hand. After a minute, she takes it, even though she’s shaking so hard she can’t quite stand at first.

“No,” she says, shakes her head. “We have to  _ leave, _ Malak. For Korriban. I need- I need him  _ dead, _ I can’t keep him out. The longer he’s alive the more control he has over me.” She pleads with him wordlessly, clinging to his hand, beyond thankful that he’s letting her near him after what he saw.  _ “Please, _ Alek.”

Malak swears roughly on an exhale and abruptly pulls her against his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around her. “Okay,” he says quietly, and she slumps into him, leans her head against his shoulder. He brings one hand up to lightly soothe over her hair, and his touch makes the horror twisting in her gut settle a little, although she can’t bring herself to look at the bodies twisted on the floor.

She did this. Alone.

“We can steal a shuttle,” she says into his shoulder. “Take it to Korriban, ditch it there and call the fleet for a pickup once we’ve found the map. If we transmit the data to the fleet to send to Cressa first, we’ll have our approval before we’re ready to leave.”

“He’ll want you to present it to the Senate yourself, you know,” Malak says.

“I’m not worried about that right now.” Not when her hands are still shaking from everything she’s done. “Let’s just leave,  _ please, _ before Vitiate sends someone after us.”

But she knows he won’t. After all, she’s done just what he’s wanted from the beginning.

She’s turned to the Dark Side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't worry, i promise my end goal is _not_ Dark Revan, she can come back from this, it's just that right at this moment she doesn't think she can.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, i'm back, time for you all to meet my Exile, Qatya! this chapter takes place while Malak and Revan are traveling to Korriban and during their first couple of days there - the next few chapters will more than likely alternate between Revan and Qatya until they're all in the same place, and then there will probably be a decent amount of POV changes between the two of them. 
> 
> there is a very complicatedly-established relationship between Qatya and Atris in this chapter. Atris is a really complicated character and i'm doing my best to look at her ten years in the future and sort of work back; i like to think i've done a decent job capturing her voice, but we'll see. anyway i finally got to write some relationship angst and i'm happy now.
> 
> finally, this chapter according to google docs is 7447 words, and i'm just super happy with the palindrome, sooo
> 
> leave a comment and let me know what you think! <3

The Taris Lower City is often bustling with too many people, but at the very least half of them are associated with various swoop gangs and so mind their own business - unlike in the Upper City, where everyone wants to stop and talk, and no one is ever content to leave her alone, and  _ I recognize that name, why are you here on Taris? _ The swoop gangs aren’t concerned with the affairs of the Republic or the Jedi, and while she’s certain they recognize her name too (or some of them, at least), none of them give a damn.

It’s refreshing.

Qatya Petheir has spent the last three years fighting a galaxy-wide war, and when that war ended, she walked away. She has no desire to involve herself in anything greater than which gang controls what sector and who won the weekend swoop races.

She doubts anyone could recognize her these days, without the name (and she’s considered changing it, just to wash away the last vestige of recognizability, but she’s lost her entire  _ life _ to the war, she can’t give it her name too); gone are the hybrid Jedi robes and armor, and without the distinctive silver dualsaber on her hip there’s nothing to reveal who she used to be. Except the habits, of course, and all the grace and balance trained into her that not even the loss of the Force could remove. Qatya can’t jump thirty meters or stop an escaping shuttle with her will anymore, but it’s nearly impossible to drug her, and she’ll never lose her balance.

It’s been some three months since the end of the war. Qatya still wakes up screaming every night. It doesn’t matter that she can’t feel the humming of life around her; she’s had a lifetime of being attuned to the Force more strongly than most of the Jedi High Council, and the tearing, screaming tsunami of Malachor V is burned into her mind like an eternal afterimage. She dreams of drowning in the deaths, and she dreams of the cold  _ silence _ that followed, nearly blinding, a silence she still hasn’t woken up from.

(She’d been unconscious for the true end of the war. Revan had accepted the Mandalorians’ surrender and given a speech to the Republic Senate - Qatya had watched a playback of it later on, had found herself staring at the masked woman with a strange feeling of revulsion. Revan is her  _ friend, _ and a good one too, but in that moment she’d been something entirely alien and awful, speaking of victory with the easy charisma that made so many love her, as though they hadn’t just killed a planet, as though Qatya wasn’t going to dream of the way Revan had said her name at the end, as though they’d  _ won. _

Qatya does not regret going off to war. But Malachor… Malachor wasn’t war. It was a massacre.)

When she’d first arrived on Taris, she’d been weaponless by design - she was no longer fighting a war, and she’s no slouch in hand-to-hand if her life is threatened, and she’d left her lightsaber behind on Coruscant when the High Council decided to exile her for her orders on Malachor. She hadn’t thought she’d need a weapon. Then she’d gone out in public for the first time, after paying up six months rent in a cheap apartment on one of the lower levels, and someone had brushed against her side, and she’d  _ panicked. _

She doesn’t have the Force anymore, to tell her where people are, to warn her if hostiles are approaching. She can’t deflect blaster bolts - with a lightsaber or with her will - and while her reflexes are still sharp, she doesn’t have the advanced warning of  _ danger _ that saved her life so many times on the battlefield.

So now, Qatya carries a blaster on one hip that she’s painstakingly trained herself to use, until her aim is as sharp as it would be with the Force’s aid, and a vibrostaff slung across her back. She’d spent most of her remaining credits on the weapons - the blaster is Mandalorian tech and the vibrostaff Echani - and she doesn’t go anywhere without them. Even though she avoids fights, even cantina brawls, just having the weapons on her makes her feel a little less vulnerable.

(It’s not that she’s become  _ squeamish _ since Malachor; Qatya knows how to kill, and how to kill well,  _ too _ well perhaps - Jedi are not supposed to be executioners, or to kill unless as a last resort, although she’s hardly a Jedi any longer. But the first time she’d stepped into a dueling ring to earn some extra credits, she’d engaged her opponent only to see herself face-to-face with a Mandalorian general, and only her combat instincts had kept her from simply freezing in place. She’d won the duel, but the emotions that surged through her, the way her hands trembled for hours after-

She doesn’t trust herself in a fight.)

She has a job, of sorts, as an assistant for a doctor in the Upper City, though his practice is more of a charity than a business and he can barely afford to pay her. She doesn’t really mind that, though. After years of nothing but death and war, it’s nice to finally be able to help people, and Zelka frequently mentions that she’s got the steadiest hands of anyone he’s ever seen.

She hasn’t told him why.

It’s been a long day at the clinic; there’d been a swoop race today, and four different riders had all been brought in with nasty injuries. One had just had a bad case of road rash from crashing their swoop, but another had crushed several bones and had needed surgery before he could even go into a kolto tank. Zelka had forced her to take a bonus at the end of the day, saying that her quiet strength and focus under pressure had saved the man’s leg.

Qatya isn’t sure if she believes him - she’s not even trained for medical work, only knows what she’d picked up from the combat medics and from the rudimentary field training all Jedi receive - but she’d accepted the thanks anyway, albeit reluctantly. It feels strange to be thanked for saving lives instead of taking them.

Good, though. Even without the Force, even exiled from the Jedi, her entire life has been shaped by the tenants of the Jedi Code, and her compassion and her morals are two things she’s taking back from the war, piece by piece.

When she gets back to her apartment, with its shoddy plumbing and the bare minimum of furniture, its dingy white walls void of any kind of character, Qatya’s hit by a not-entirely-unexpected wave of loneliness. Even as a child, growing up in the Jedi Temple, she was always surrounded by people, by her  _ family; _ when she’d gone off to war, the rest of the Revanchists had been there, and the Republic soldiers, and she’d had Revan and Alek, even if they’d both gotten more distant as the war went on. Now, though, Zelka is the closest thing Qatya has to a friend. 

Sure, she’s on friendly terms with most of the swoop gangs - she can fight, so they don’t intimidate her, and she doesn’t interfere with them, and working for Zelka has endeared her to the swoop racers - but she hardly speaks to any of them. She still hasn’t adjusted to losing one of her most important senses, after all, and she can’t stop seeing the war in every tiny detail.

It’s just easier to keep to herself. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t miss people. Sometimes, the loneliness is almost enough to make her regret walking away from the fleet; even though the Jedi had exiled her, Revan still would’ve accepted her, welcomed her.

But there’s nothing she can do about it now.

She strips out of her tight pants and tall boots and outer tunic and undershirt (the layers are a familiar weight that help, a little, with the lack of armor), hangs up her jacket and her belt with its attached holster for her blaster, steps into the small fresher to clean herself off. The only real amenity this apartment has is a water shower with actual hot water, and she takes advantage of that now, lets the heat soak out the stress and the exhaustion from her muscles. 

Qatya is twenty-three years old. These days, she feels as positively ancient as Master Vandar.

After a shower and dinner - she reheats leftover Festian takeout from a couple nights ago - she settles down on the small, dingy couch with her datapad, prepares to sink into some mindless holodrama. It’s a well-worn routine to keep her mind off her memories, until she’s tired enough she can attempt to sleep, and if she’s lucky, get more than four hours.

Instead, though, as she tucks her feet up under her, her comm goes off.

It’s a habit to reach her hand out as though she could pull her holocomm to her; she registers the action too late and forcefully pushes to her feet, shaking her head. She needs to stop forgetting she can’t  _ do that _ anymore. She’s not a Jedi, she’s not even a Force-user anymore, so she needs to stop acting like one.

Qatya picks up her holocomm, answers it absently as she returns to her couch - tomorrow is supposed to be her day off, but there’s a chance Zelka might need her, especially with the four racers in kolto currently.

It’s not Zelka.

It’s the Jedi High Council.

_ “Qatya Petheir,” _ Vandar says, and she nearly drops the comm in shock.

“What is this?” she manages, after a moment, slowly sitting down on the couch, back straight, one hand clenching in her lap. “Come to apologize for your decision?”

_ “Not entirely,” _ the Jedi Master says, and Qatya looks around the comm; it’s just him, Vrook, and Atris in attendance currently. Something twists in her chest, seeing the young Echani Jedi, even though Atris has been nothing but hostile to her since she followed Revan to war. And Qatya has seen how Atris has acted since ascending to the Council; she isn’t so sure what she feels for the other woman anymore, but she can’t deny it’s- good, to see her face.  _ “But circumstances have changed, and it is possible our decision was… hasty.” _

_ “By ‘circumstances’, he means Revan,” _ Vrook clarifies, and ah, that explains the scowl on the old, acerbic Master’s face.  _ “Revan and Malak have decided to go after something we believe to be very dangerous in their crusade against this empire they discovered in the outer reaches of the galaxy. Revan especially is extremely unstable, and we believe this course of action could bring the Republic to ruin.” _

“I don’t see what this has to do with me. You exiled me, Masters, and you know I’ve lost my connection to the Force.” Qatya bites the inside of her cheek to hold back her frustration. They can’t just send her away, then expect her to come trotting back the moment they realize they need her again. “You have plenty of Jedi to call on.”

_ “And yet none of them could have a hope of standing against Revan.” _ Vrook says, and the fact that he’s admitting that - the fact that Vandar doesn’t contradict him - something’s happened.

Something big.

Qatya swallows, shifts her weight, and can’t stop herself from glancing over at Atris. There’s concern in the Jedi’s pale eyes, even if she’d never admit it. “What happened to Revan?” she asks, quietly.

Atris speaks up for the first time.  _ “We’ve had reports,” _ she says.  _ “If they are to be believed, there’s a very powerful Sith who is currently attempting to turn Revan to the Dark Side. The Jedi who reported to us recently said Revan herself believes the Sith to be succeeding.” _

Qatya thinks back to the war, thinks of Onderon and Dxun, of Obliss, of a hundred smaller battles. She thinks of Malachor.  _ Sacrifices are necessary in war, Admiral. Qatya? _ (And she can’t think about that without thinking of the way she’d looked away from the holos, turned to Bao-Dur, and nodded. And that single nod had caused  _ so much _ destruction.) Revan hadn’t even taken her mask off around Qatya near the end.

Qatya’s instincts have always been good. Part of that used to be her connection to the Force, so much stronger than most, and part of that was honed by three years of war, serving closely with the most powerful Jedi in the Order.

She knows, without a doubt, that she’s the only one who could fight Revan. And she’s one of the only ones who could get Revan to stand down.

Qatya was at Malachor. She knows why the Jedi would need someone to fight their brightest Knight.

_ “You were close to Revan,” _ Atris says.  _ “We need you, Qatya.” _ Her voice is soft.

“Do you need me,” Qatya asks, “or my power?”

Atris looks away and doesn’t answer.

_ “We can restore your connection to the Force,” _ Vandar says, folding his small, clawed hands in front of him.  _ “We will return your lightsaber to you and restore your position in the Order, on the condition you do this for us. We will also teach you how to properly harness and use your sever Force ability - it may be necessary, if you must fight Revan and Malak.” _

The only time Qatya’s ever cut someone’s connection to the Force off was her own, instinctively, after Malachor. It’s not something she ever intends to do again. “What would you do if I said no?” she asks, sees the three Masters looking at each other.

She knows what her answer has to be - Revan is her  _ friend, _ and she knows the damage her friend could do. But she needs to know.

_ “We don’t know,” _ Atris admits, and despite everything she’s heard tonight, Qatya is still somehow surprised by those words. She doesn’t  _ like _ the Council, certainly, but she’s never heard them admit to not having a plan before. It makes her realize just how serious this truly is.

And so what choice does she have?

“I’ll come back,” she says. “But not for you. For Revan.” She can’t help meeting Atris’ eyes when she says, “I don’t believe in abandoning the people I care about.”

Atris doesn’t flinch, exactly, but she does close her eyes for a very long minute.  _ “We’ll talk,” _ she says, finally. Qatya isn’t sure what to think of that.

“I need a couple of days to make arrangements,” she says after a moment of awkward silence. 

_ “We’ll send a ship from Coruscant to get you,” _ Vandar says.  _ “That should give you all the time you need. Welcome home, Knight Petheir.” _

Qatya agrees, because even after everything else that’s happened, after all the fighting, all the pain, the Jedi Temple on Coruscant is still, truly, the only place in the galaxy she can call home.

And she wants to go home.

~

The next morning, Qatya straps on her weapons and takes the lift up to the Upper City, makes her way to Zelka’s clinic, ignoring the other people in the street. The doctor is surprised to see her, she can tell, though he offers her a smile.

“Hello, Qatya,” he says cheerfully. “I wasn’t expecting to see you today.”

Qatya smiles back, although it falls a little flat. “I need to talk to you,” she says, glances around the clinic at the patients watching them curiously. “Alone.”

Zelka’s face shutters a little, but he nods, leads the way to his office and closes the door behind them. He takes a seat in one of the chairs, offers her the other, but she shakes her head, finds herself unconsciously tucking her hands behind her back in a too-familiar stance. “What is it?” he asks, and she takes a deep breath, closes her eyes for a half-second.

“I’m leaving Taris,” she says, “and I thought you- deserved an explanation. You’ve been kind to me these last couple of months.”

“I’ll be sad to see you go, certainly - and not just because I’m losing a capable assistant - but you don’t owe me anything, my dear.” Zelka smiles at her. “Many people on Taris have pasts they don’t want to talk about. This planet is a fresh start.”

Qatya shakes her head. “You’re very kind, but I need to tell you this. My name is Qatya Petheir.  _ Jedi General _ Qatya Petheir, the one who gave the order to destroy Malachor in the Mandalorian Wars.” Zelka’s eyes go wide and he’s paled a little, and she rushes on, widening her stance and twisting her hands tighter together. “After all that destruction, I had to walk away, before I completely lost myself to the fighting. Working with you… you’ve given me a chance to make up for the lives I took, and there’s no way I can thank you enough for that.”

Zelka is quiet for a long moment. It’s obvious by the look on his face that he’s familiar with the basics of what happened on Malachor, familiar enough to understand the magnitude of what she did when she gave that order. Qatya doesn’t let herself pace - she trained herself out of that habit during the war, because soldiers get a lot more nervous if their general isn’t confident - but the silence is uncomfortably close to a judgement. Just when she’s about to make excuses and leave, though, Zelka smiles.

“I’m not entirely surprised, to be honest,” he says, and she blinks - definitely not what she’d expected him to say. He laughs at the surprise that must be showing on her face. “I’m a doctor, Qatya, and I was one when the Mandalorians took Taris, and when the Republic took it back. I’ve seen my fair share of soldiers. Between the way you stand at rest, your steady hands and familiarity with injuries, and - if I’m honest - the way you can’t let go of your weapons, I assumed you were part of the war. I wasn’t expecting a former Jedi, though.”

Qatya half-smiles, rubs at her forehead with one hand, nearly sheepish. “Is it really that obvious?” she asks. “I didn’t want to telegraph who I am to everyone.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about that, my dear,” Zelka tells her. “Besides, if you’re truly leaving - and I mean it when I say I’ll miss you, by the way, it’s been good to have company - does it matter what the people here think of you? You’ve been kind, and done much for the sick and the injured, and that’s what people will remember when you’re gone.”

It shouldn’t mean so much, she thinks, to hear these words from an old, too-sentimental man who can hardly bear to charge for his services. Zelka isn’t a Jedi, isn’t any of the people she wants (needs) to forgive her (and she doesn’t need forgiveness from the Jedi, except for the ones she  _ killed, _ but they do owe her- something, she’s just not sure what it is), and yet his easy smile washes away a little of the exhaustion that’s been dogging her steps since she stabbed her lightsaber into stone.

“Thank you,” she says, quietly. “That means- more than you know.”

Zelka offers his hand and Qatya shakes it without hesitating. “Good luck on your journey, Master Jedi,” he says solemnly, though his eyes are still smiling. “No matter what happens, you will always have a place here.”

“I’ll remember that,” she promises, and says her goodbyes - wishes the swoop racers a quick recovery - and leaves the clinic behind.

The ship from Coruscant arrives late in the evening the next day, and when Qatya boards with her small bag of belongings, the captain informs her they’ll be jumping into hyperspace as soon as they’ve refueled. She’s not exactly looking forward to the day and a half trip - she’s gotten used to staying in one place, and more than that, it feels… strange to be heading back to Coruscant after everything that’s happened, even though it’s only been three months since the end of the war. The Mandalorian Wars almost feel like another lifetime altogether.

It’s a lifetime she’s being drawn back into more and more with every parsec they travel towards the Republic’s capital.

Going off to war had been an easy choice to make, all things considered. Qatya remembers the way the news had been more and more full of disasters on the Outer Rim - it seemed like at least once a week there would be more images of cities razed, innocents burned, planets left nearly uninhabitable, all because the Mandalorians wanted to  _ test themselves, _ because they wanted glory. And as more attention was drawn to their atrocities, it seemed only to  _ embolden _ them - the Mandalorians had been taunting the Republic and the Jedi both.

Only the Jedi Council hadn’t seemed to see that, or to care.

Atris hadn’t been on the Council yet, but she was being considered for it, and as such she’d had access to more information than Qatya ever had on her own. Atris had told her, shortly before everything fell apart, that the Council suspected there was something more behind the Mandalorians’ attacks, something driving them to it, and they wanted time to figure out what.  _ We have time, _ Atris had said, the two of them sitting across from each other in a narrow window seat, knees brushing.

_ The Jedi might have time, _ Qatya had answered, _ but the rest of the Republic doesn’t. _

They’d argued, then. Arguing wasn’t exactly unusual for the two of them, but that room - it had been  _ their place, _ for just the two of them, where nothing outside the room mattered, where they could just be them, together, for whatever stolen time they found. When they’d first decided to try for- whatever their relationship could be called, they’d agreed that no matter what, they wouldn’t fight there, in the closest thing to a sanctuary they’d had.

But they’d fought that day, and then Atris had stormed out, and in her anger and pain Qatya hadn’t spoken to her again before she left Coruscant. (She’s regretted that ever since.)

Alek and Revan had always been- on the edges of Qatya’s awareness. She’s younger than them by a little, just enough that they weren’t really in the same classes, but they’d grown up in the creche together for a time, and after the two had come back to Coruscant as padawans, they’d spoken sometimes. Everyone in the Temple knew Revan’s name, though most of them disliked her for some reason or another - she was too young to be so powerful, too proud, too arrogant, or people were simply jealous.

So when Alek had told her that Revan was going to war, regardless of what the Jedi Council said, that they were looking for Jedi who couldn’t just sit back and watch while the Republic they’d sworn to protect fell apart around them - what else could Qatya do but say yes? The Mandalorians  _ needed _ to be stopped before they destroyed the galaxy and the Republic, before they burned any more planets, and if the Jedi Council wouldn’t take matters into their own hands, well, Revan was the best person to do it.

No matter how the war ended, no matter what they’d all done in the name of victory, Qatya doesn’t regret trusting Revan, doesn’t regret going off to war. She  _ can’t. _ They’d saved lives, saved entire worlds.

She just wishes the cost hadn’t been so high. Not just the price the galaxy paid, but her own personal cost.

The Force. The Jedi.  _ Atris. _

Qatya isn’t like Revan, she can’t push all the pain to the side by reminding herself the sacrifices were necessary. During the war, she’d hated that, had tried so  _ hard _ to cling to that same line of thinking. Now that it’s all over, though, now that Revan has disappeared into the Unknown Regions to fight another war-

Maybe it’s good that Qatya still can’t move past her pain.

When she arrives on Coruscant, she’s struck by how similar it looks - some part of her had somehow expected it to be different, after three years of war, and after her exile. It’s a little silly, she thinks, to expect an entire planet to change just because she has. And yet she can’t deny it’s- almost disheartening to see how little change her absence has had on her homeworld.

She’d spent her entire life here, as far back as she can remember, until she’d left for the war. Coruscant, by its very nature, is constantly changing, each day slightly different in the Force, the rush of people and emotion a nearly-soothing background noise. The bustle of  _ life _ has always been as much of a feeling of  _ home _ as the soothing Light the Temple radiates.

For the first time in her entire life, when Qatya steps out of the ship onto their landing pad, she feels nothing but cold durasteel beneath her boots.

“I don’t need an escort,” she tells the two Republic soldiers by the waiting speeder at the edge of the landing platform. “But thank you.”

She doesn’t give the soldiers a chance to respond, just slides into the driver’s seat of the speeder and starts it, and pulls away from the landing platform. She can see the Temple in the distance, the grand entrance with its tall Jedi statues, and she finds herself speeding up, definitely flying faster than is strictly legal. She just- things have been so confusing and hard, lately, and she wants to be home. She’s  _ missed _ it.

But when Qatya steps off the speeder and makes her way through the grand doors, there’s just- nothing at all. The Temple  _ looks _ the exact same as it did before she went to war, but she can’t  _ feel _ it - the Light that warms her bones, the familiar, soothing presence of her fellow Jedi against her own, the glittering field of stars that is so many Force-signatures in one place. She can’t feel the centuries of memory infused into the very walls and the floor she walks on, memories that she herself added to once.

Without the Force, the Jedi Temple isn’t the home she’s known her entire life.

It’s nothing more than a building.

She should go see the Jedi Council. They’re waiting for her, she knows, and they’ve promised to restore her connection to the Force. She could feel the Temple come alive around her again, finally feel her kyber crystal singing to her again, the solid hilt of her lightsaber in her hands. 

But instead, she finds herself wandering the halls, trailing her fingers over the murals and mosaics and sculptures that adorn the walls. The Temple is beautiful, it’s impossible to deny, but Qatya thinks she’d never really appreciated that beauty as a child. After three years moving from bloody warzones to burning planets, and three months in possibly the barest apartment in existence on a city-world where everything is just a shade too decayed, the Temple almost feels like a dream. Bright colors, soft gold accents, exquisite stonework, even stained glass windows - it’s the most incredible thing she’s seen in years.

Eventually, she leaves behind the more populated areas, until she’s standing in a dimly-lit hallway in one of the towers, in front of a door that looks like it hasn’t been opened in a long time. (It probably hasn’t been. It’s ridiculous of her to think otherwise.) There’s a keypad by the door and Qatya ghosts her fingers over it for a moment before typing in the combination. It’s probably changed in the last three years, she finds herself thinking, unless someone deliberately set it back-

The door slides open.

It’s just a reading room, with scattered furniture covered in a thin layer of dust, an unlit fireplace - and a window seat just barely wide enough for two people set in the far wall. The lights come on automatically as Qatya walks into the room, crosses over the soft woven rug, and every inch of this room is filled to the brim with memories: warmth and laughter and comfort, a sanctuary, a safe haven, and the sight of it now has her instinctively relaxing. She comes to a stop in front of the window seat, brushes her fingers over the transparisteel panes, stares out over the city sprawling beneath the tower.

She’d come here on her own sometimes, when she was having a hard time quieting her mind for meditation, to sit and soak herself in the distant bustle of the planet around her. It’s almost an instinct to reach for that comfort, and it still  _ twists _ something deep in her chest when she slams into that wall preventing her from touching the Force. It’s so  _ close _ and yet just out of reach, and she closes her eyes, leans her forehead against the wall next to the window, wills back the heat behind her eyes.

This room, more than anything else, represents everything she’s lost.

She doesn’t know how long she stands there, head bowed, lost in her memories; time passes by, the sun starting to drop below the horizon, the air through the window turning chilly with the touch of evening, and then from behind her someone clears their throat and she’s whirling, hand going to her vibrostaff before she can even think. If they were an enemy, she’d be  _ dead, _ but she’s awful at noticing people approaching without the Force to warn her, and-

Oh.

Qatya makes eye contact with dark blue eyes, framed by silver hair, and the vibrostaff falls from her hand.

“When you didn’t come before the Council, I knew you’d be here,” Atris says. There’s a strange mixture of anger and softness in her voice, and it’s hard to listen to. “We were waiting for you.”

Qatya swallows. “I know,” she says, after a moment, can’t bring herself to look away. She hasn’t properly seen Atris since their disastrous argument before she left, and the older Jedi looks  _ tired. _ There are faint lines on her forehead, despite her being far too young for them, and the look in her eyes is something weary and worn.

Qatya wants to kiss her. She wants to trace her fingers over the lines of Atris’ face until the furrows in her brow smooth away. She wants to meld their Force-signatures and minds together until she can’t tell the difference between them, until they don’t have to speak. She wants-

But none of that matters, of course.

(More than anything at all, she wants Atris to forgive her.)

“I didn’t think you’d want to wait for us to restore your Force connection.” Atris takes a few more steps into the room, nearly tentative. “How can you stand being cut off like this?”

“From what I recall, you were the first to suggest my  _ condition _ be made permanent,” Qatya says mildly, bending down to pick up her vibrostaff and return it to the sling on her back. What she’s saying is true - Atris  _ had _ argued that the wall Qatya had thrown up between herself and the Force should be made into a permanent severed connection. But that doesn’t take into account the look she’d seen in Atris’ eyes when Qatya had walked into the Council chamber, blinded to the Force, healing injuries cross-crossing her body from the planet’s partial collapse, irrevocably changed by her decision.

That doesn’t take into account the fact that she’d known Atris had  _ wanted _ to follow her when she joined Revan and Alek, but had in the end been unable to let go of the Jedi Code and Council.

Atris’ eyes flare a little. “I stand by my choice,” she says. “What you did - it was  _ wrong, _ Qatya.”

“And I stand by mine.” Qatya holds Atris’ blue eyes for a moment before softening a little. “Malachor - that was different. There were no right choices then. I don’t think there was any other choice I  _ could have _ made, but at the same time…” She looks away, out the window again. “Revan said it was worth it, to end the war, and I  _ have _ to believe her, or I’ll-” She stops and shakes her head.

There’s a long minute of quiet.

“I would expect you to show more contrition for the  _ other _ massacres you led,” Atris starts and Qatya-

She snaps.

“Force  _ damn it, _ Atris!” she says, spinning back to face the Jedi. “I have never been so  _ miserable _ in my life. I haven’t slept a night without nightmares since before Malachor, and you can be sure that battle didn’t help any. I’m exhausted, I’m constantly on edge because without the Force I can’t feel my surroundings, and Force only knows why but I’ve missed you  _ so much.” _ Her voice cracks on the last words and she sinks down onto the window seat, buries her face in her hands to try and hold back the tears that’ve been wanting to fall since she entered this damn room - since she set foot inside the Jedi Temple and couldn’t feel a thing, more honestly. But they won’t be stopped this time.

She doesn’t want Atris to see her cry. Not after the anger and the bitterness, not after their last fight and the sentencing the Council had given her, not after she’d stabbed her lightsaber into the center stone and Atris hadn’t called after her, hadn’t even tried to speak to her before she left.

She hears soft footsteps, and then Atris is settling down next to her on the window seat, and then there’s a pair of too-familiar arms wrapping around her, gently nudging her to lean sideways. Qatya lets out a soft sob and presses her face into Atris’ shoulder, lets herself finally  _ cry _ over all the pain of the war.

“We promised we’d never fight in this room,” Atris says quietly, one hand gently working to undo Qatya’s braids. “I was the one who broke that last time. I won’t do the same now.”

In the back of her mind, Qatya thinks that this is probably not the smartest thing to do - they have so many things to talk about, to work out, it’s been three years since they were together - and yet she can’t stop herself from wrapping her arms tightly around Atris’ chest, holding on tighter than she really should.

It’s not smart, maybe. But Qatya needs it too much to pull back.

Once Atris has undone her braids, she starts gently carding her fingers through the thick black strands, and Qatya closes her eyes. The motion is so soothing, calming, and she can  _ almost _ feel Atris projecting, even if she can’t respond in kind. It helps ease the sobs that wrack her body, helps her slide into the breathing exercises she’d learned as a child in the creche, until the tears have slowed and her breathing is under control and she’s no longer clinging quite so tightly.

Even after the tears stop - leaving her heavy and exhausted, wrung out and drained, but in a better way - Qatya doesn’t move, just stays nestled against Atris, presses her forehead in the hollow of Atris’ neck. She feels nearly at peace for the first time in months.

It can’t last, of course. Hers and Atris’ relationship has always been turbulent, even before the whispers of war had started, but Qatya has always been able to withstand the fights because of moments like these, when everything is calm and for a moment the galaxy leaves them be.

The sunlight has completely faded from the sky and the neon lights are fully lighting up the dark by the time Atris speaks again. “You look like a smuggler,” she says. “You can’t go before the Jedi High Council looking like this.”

Qatya can’t help but chuckle a little, opening her eyes and watching Atris. “I didn’t keep my armor, and you know how much I dislike just wearing robes.”

Atris is smiling, though there’s something in her expression - things aren’t quite right between them and they both know it. And tomorrow, this moment of peace will be all but gone. “I kept your armor, don’t be ridiculous. I have your lightsaber as well.”

Qatya… stops, a little. “You kept them?” she finds herself asking, breathing almost, something nearly shaken in her voice. She’d dismissed her armor as being gone for good, and she’d expected to have to make a new lightsaber, hadn’t even expected to get to keep the kyber crystal at its heart. “Atris, I-”

“Don’t say anything, you would’ve done the same for me,” Atris says, waving a hand. “I will be expected to be in the Council chambers early tomorrow, so I’d like to get you settled in before it gets much later. You aren’t the only one running on too little sleep.”

_ I can’t imagine what could be keeping you up at night, _ Qatya wants to say, but she bites the words back, sits up straight and pushes her hair back out of her face. Tomorrow is going to be difficult enough without fighting with Atris tonight too, and the Echani Jedi had already promised not to argue - so Qatya won’t start anything. Besides, it’s an easy enough sacrifice to make for a little bit longer of peace.

“Who am I to argue with that?” is what she says instead, a small smile flickering across her face, and she stands, stretches a little before offering Atris a hand.

They leave the reading room behind, hand in hand, and for a moment, as they walk through the Temple halls, Qatya can almost forget the last three years like a bad dream; she can pretend that the rumors haven’t started to circulate, that Atris hasn’t been approached as a potential Master of the Council, that they haven’t fought over anything more serious than Atris’ short-lived decision to poorly dye her hair red so she looked more human.

But instead of the Knights’ wing, Atris leads them to the tower where the Masters have their rooms, and Qatya still can’t feel the pulse of the Force through the Temple, and there’s the weight of weapons across her back instead of her lightsaber on her hip. Everything has changed, and it’s not fair to either of them to pretend it hasn’t. Still, for a moment the ruse is soothing.

Atris’ rooms are large, with an attached private fresher, a small kitchen, a living room richly furnished in green and silver, and an attached bedroom. (Qatya wonders if the Jedi Master remembers that her favorite color has always been green.) They’re surprisingly luxurious too, though Qatya doesn’t sit, just runs her fingers over the soft fabric of the couch and eyes the caf machine with something akin to longing. The cheap caf she’d been able to afford on Taris had been more sludge than anything else.

Atris smiles when she notices Qatya’s gaze. “Make yourself a cup, if you’d like,” she offers, and then walks through the door into the bedroom.

Qatya  _ really _ wants caf, and without an invitation she isn’t going to follow Atris into her bedroom, so she goes into the kitchen and sets about brewing a mug. The caf smells heavenly and it’s nearly done brewing when Atris returns from the bedroom, a small back over one shoulder and a familiar double-bladed lightsaber in her hand. Qatya can’t feel the Force, but she  _ knows, _ deep in her bones, that the kyber crystal is singing to her.

“Thank you, Atris,” she says sincerely, finishes making the mug of caf and takes a quick sip before reaching out for the dualsaber. The hilt is a little shorter than a traditional saberstaff, a faded, antique silver with burnished gold filigree, and she rubs her thumbs over the designs, the metal warming abnormally quickly to her grip, as always. She twirls the hilt between her fingers, then smiles and ignites just one of the blades, filling the kitchen with bright white light.

The blade is, as she’d known it would be, silvery white, and even without the Force to  _ truly _ feel the crystal, holding her lightsaber in her hands again is more of a homecoming than anything else has been so far.

“Your armor is in here,” Atris says, offering the bag, and Qatya reluctantly deactivates her lightsaber, hooking it to her belt so she can take the bag and sling it onto her shoulder. “Your old room has been set aside for you, though anything you left behind was removed.”

“Even the holos?” Qatya finds herself asking. There hadn’t been many, but she’d had one of her the day she’d been made a padawan, and one from the day she’d been knighted, and there’d been a third holo tucked away that a friend from the lower levels had taken, on a rare day she’d managed to convince Atris to leave the Temple with her. The picture had been a candid one, taken when neither of the two Jedi had realized; they were in civilian clothes to blend in better, and Qatya had had her arms looped around Atris’ neck as they laughed about something, Qatya’s forehead pressed against Atris’ temple.

Atris softens, though there’s something in her eyes - something pained. “I couldn’t let the Council see the one of us,” she says. “The Code, after all. I put all three of them in with your armor.”

The Code, of course. Because Atris would never be able to admit that she missed Qatya, that even after everything bitter between them she’d wanted to treasure the memories of a better time. Atris has never been able to properly admit her feelings. It’s a form of pride, Qatya thinks.

But she doesn’t have to admit them. If she’d just been worried about the Code, she would’ve thrown the holos away.

“Thank you,” is all Qatya says, and she gives Atris a genuine smile. “Do you mind if I take the caf with me? I’ll bring you the mug back tomorrow, washed and everything. I just haven’t had proper caf in a long time.”

“If you break it, lose it, or stain it, you’re replacing it,” Atris informs her, which is about what Qatya expected, honestly. “And please don’t attempt to return it to me during the Council meeting tomorrow.”

Qatya can’t help a snort of laughter. “I wouldn’t dare,” she says wryly, then sobers some, offers Atris a real, if small, smile, softer than she really means. “Thank you for putting aside your anger for tonight. I really needed this.”

Atris nods. “I could tell,” she admits, and steps forward, ghosts one hand ever so lightly over Qatya’s cheek. “It’s been so long, and yet I still  _ knew.” _ She sounds more sad than anything else, and Qatya leans into the gentle touch.

She wants to kiss Atris. But that would be a bad idea.

“Things have changed,” she says quietly, “but maybe they haven’t changed so much, where it matters. You know I still care for you, in whatever way you’ll let me.” It’s too much of an admission to make, on the first day back in each other’s spaces, but she can’t stop herself from saying it anyway.

Atris doesn’t tense up or run away, though, just smoothes her thumb over Qatya’s cheekbone. “I know.” She smiles a little, and there’s something soft and aching in the expression, and then she’s leaning forward and brushing a feather-soft kiss across Qatya’s lips and pulling back. Qatya follows her a little on instinct, stops herself after a couple of inches, and there’s something sharp and pained lodging itself in her chest. “You should go, my dear, tomorrow is going to be different.”

“I know,” Qatya whispers, hoarse. She doesn’t know what things will be like with Atris, in the future - will they go back to a mostly antagonistic relationship, barely speaking outside of meetings? Or will they be able to reach some sort of compromise, maybe even something like what they had,  _ before? _

She doesn’t know.

But she has this moment. She holds it close to her chest as she walks alone through the Temple halls, cut off from the Jedi still awake by far more than just her exile; she replays it in her head after she’s finished her caf and brought out the holos to set by her bed. She thinks of the curve of Atris’ smile and the soft press of Atris’ lips and the warm safety of Atris’ arms around her shoulders, and wraps herself in the comfort of the feeling.

She doesn’t know what tomorrow will bring. But she has this moment, and for now, that is enough.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy holidays to everyone! i hope those who celebrate Christmas had a wonderful time, and to everyone who doesn't celebrate, i hope whatever holidays and traditions you observe, if any, went well and brought you peace and happiness in these difficult times. as for me, i wasn't really able to celebrate, but i have a house! we put down a deposit and got the keys to it on Christmas day, and the moving will happen next Monday. i'm so, so grateful to finally have a place to live and a permanent address.
> 
> as for the chapter, i love Korriban so much. the entire first chunk of the chapter is heavily inspired by part iii of "the hollow men", which is a fabulous poem and you all should read it if you aren't familiar with it. i was Really not expecting there to be any romance in this, but i guess ~65k words in is a good point for Something to happen romantically between part of the main pairing. i'm so used to writing glacially slow burn that i kinda forgot.
> 
> for the tombs, i took inspiration from kotor, kotor 2, swtor, and my own ideas and brain for the layouts and challenges. this note is applicable for both this chapter and next chapter - next chapter will wrap up the search for the star map and hopefully their time on Korriban, and then we'll go back to Coruscant to check in with Qatya.
> 
> don't forget to leave a comment!

Revan lands the stolen Imperial shuttle on a large, flat plain the map had referred to as the Valley of the Dark Lords. The map itself is old, based off an ancient version of Korriban from the last time the Sith controlled the planet - she’d found it in the Citadel library while downloading everything - but it has a rough note of the various tombs scattered across the planet’s surface, the location of a former Sith Academy, and the coordinates of this valley.

Revan isn’t certain where the star map is going to be, but based on the locations of the others, she suspects it won’t be out in the open. Dantooine and Tatooine had both been in ancient temples, even if the temple on Tatooine had been nothing more than krayt-infested ruins by the time she’d found it. The tombs seem to be the most likely place to look - she just hopes they won’t need special tools to get inside.

She presses the button to lower the shuttle’s ramp and steps down it, out into the dry desert winds. They whip her cloak into a tangled frenzy behind her and stir her hair (it’s just been her and Malak, so she’s left her hood down and her mask hooked to her belt), rush against her face and sting the slowly-healing burn on her cheek. She takes a deep breath, and the dusty, cold air tastes somehow pure in her lungs.

Korriban is shades of red and brown, stone and sand against a scorched-blue sky, a large red sun hovering near the horizon, the sky itself dotted with a handful of moons and planetoids. Stark, craggy mountains rise up in jagged ranges like teeth around her, and crumbled old stonework is etched into the hills on either side of the valley, half-collapsed pillars scattered across the valley floor on either side of the shuttle.

Directly across from her, where the edge of the valley abruptly drops off into a sharp cliff, massive statues rise from the ground below, so tall Revan has to crane her head back to see the tops of them. Humans, slaves she thinks, with their heads bowed in subservience; some have been worn away by the winds and time itself, pieces breaking away, but the  _ scope _ of the statues, of their construction - it takes her breath away. Korriban hasn’t been occupied in a thousand years, at least, and yet these statues remain, as a monument to those who built them.

Revan steps off the shuttle ramp, her boots making a faint impact and disturbing the dust around them, and the Force rises up and swirls around her, born on the constant winds, and she can almost feel it calling to her, welcoming her, drawing her in. Eyes fixed on the ancient statues across from her, carried forward by the Force, Revan pulls her gloves off one at a time and kneels down, and she buries her hands into the sands.

And the very  _ soul _ of the planet becomes her own.

_ Death. So much death, until the very sands are soaked in blood, rivers of it running across the ground, across pale hands until they are stained with it, fingernails sharp as knives. Voices float on the breeze, their words deep and tolling like funeral bells, harsh and guttural like a flock of chattering ravens, and in them there is a power strong enough to warp the planet’s very bones. Gods glide across the knolls of broken rock, and the native people prostrate themselves before them, give away their hearts and the heart of Korriban and even their name: Sith. _

_ The galaxy spins and gods made human change the surface of the world, etch into it their names and their glories, build tombs as elaborate as palaces and twice as deadly, and worship stone monuments to mortality until their knees break from the pressure. A new war comes, and the rivers of blood widen, and the planet drinks in the agony and the death until the wind forever echoes with their screams. It howls through chasms and spires of rock and shattered plains and the ruins of grand castles, a ceaseless symphony of wailing echoing from the mouths of statues of slaves, forever immortalized in their obedience and their pain. _

_ Korriban endures. _

_ The sands swallow the bodies and the blood soaks into the stones until its only trace is the color left behind, and the icy air erodes away the grand cathedrals until all that remains are ashes and dust and tombs.  _ Everything ends, _ the sands murmur,  _ and time consumes all.

You are no exception.

Revan gasps in a shuddering breath, stares down at her bare hands, half-covered in dirt, and for a moment the reddish-brown dust looks like dried blood. All she can do is stare, unseeing, at the ground beneath her, as the Force wraps around her and whispers  _ welcome home, bringer of death, welcome to your sanctum. _ Thousands of years of war and vengeance are ground into the very bones of the planet, until Korriban itself is become them, is become the essence of war and pain and death, and the planet reaches out and finds an echo of that essence in Revan’s own soul.

“Revan?” she hears, and Malak’s familiar voice is enough to drag her back to herself, although there’s a strange awareness of the land around her pulsing faintly through her mind. She sits back on her heels, grabs her discarded gloves and pulls them back on, pushes to her feet and turns to see Malak standing halfway down the shuttle ramp. He pales when he looks at her. “Your eyes…”

“What about them?” Revan asks, frowning, and steps closer to the ship, uses the reflective durasteel as a mirror. It’s not a good reflection, but it’s enough to show that her vivid green irises are now flecked with gold.

A chill runs across her skin and she shivers, feels a phantom brush of dread, and she brings one hand up to touch the reflection. She looks-  _ different, _ somehow. Haunted.

(There are ghosts here. She knows this for a fact. And she knows she - alive, awake, aware - does not belong here, on these sands stained with atrocities, where the only living things are hunger and wrath and rage bound to the planet by revenge.)

“I touched the heart of the planet,” she murmurs. “It was calling to me.”

“The last time you followed a call from the Force it led us to Vitiate,” Malak points out, and the familiar flush of guilt drags her away from her reflection, forcing her to look at him. He doesn’t look angry, exactly, more frustrated than anything else. “You need to be  _ careful. _ We don’t know anything about this place.”

“It’s a burial world,” Revan tells him. “The ancient Sith conquered it millennia ago and lived here, enslaved the natives, until a war came and destroyed them all. Since then it’s been empty.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw it.” She walks away from the ship, the wind buffeting her through her robes - still the same ones she’d taken from the Sith on Dromund Kaas. There should be four tombs easily accessed from the Valley of the Dark Lords, according to the stolen map and the strange sense she has of the world spinning beneath her feet, and any one of them could contain the star map.

She just has to get close to it. The star maps echo in the Force - they’re infused with it, with Dark power, and she knows she’ll be able to sense this one once she’s near enough. She was able to sense all the others they went after, after all.

“You saw-  _ Revan,” _ Malak says, catching up to her and putting a hand on her shoulder. “Next time, warn me before you do something like that. What if it’d gone sideways? We’re  _ alone _ out here.”

She waves a hand dismissively. “The fleet is a few hours away in hyperspace, if the worst happened. Besides, I have you, I don’t need anyone else.”

They’ve both had their shields up high since escaping Dromund Kaas. Revan knows they need to talk about what she  _ did, _ in the Citadel, but she doesn’t even know how to begin, and he’d seemed reluctant to bring it up, the hours in hyperspace passing mostly-silently while Revan studied the files she’d stolen and sent them to Jenn, along with a prepared speech of where she’d gone, why she’d gone - to find a superweapon powerful enough to defeat this Empire before it grows any stronger - and what all she’d seen on Dromund Kaas. Jenn had promised to forward it and the data files to Cressa, and had said she’d let the rest of the strike team on Dromund Kaas know what had happened.

Revan is grateful for that. She hadn’t exactly  _ meant _ to abandon them, especially Bastila, she’d just known with a deep, instinctive certainty that if she didn’t get away from Vitiate,  _ quickly, _ it would be bad. Vitiate isn’t controlling her, she knows that much - the decisions she’d made have all been her own - but he’s been twisting her thoughts and feelings and with his unrestricted access to her mind, Force only knows what he’d been doing too subtly for her to notice.

No, she’d had to run, and quickly, and she won’t get near him again until it’s time to invade Dromund Kaas itself and kill its Emperor. And Revan  _ will _ kill him for what he’s done to her and Malak, no matter what it takes. She won’t let him hurt anyone else.

She  _ swears _ it.

Malak sighs, and even through his shields she can feel a pulse of fond exasperation mixed with concern. “I knew you’d say that,” he grumbles. “What happens if I  _ can’t _ save you, Revan? I won’t always be able to protect you.” His expression twists and he looks away, scuffs a booted toe against the ground. “I can’t protect you from Vitiate.”

Revan stops. “It’s my job to protect  _ you _ from him,” she says firmly. How can he even  _ say that _ when if she hadn’t chosen to go off on her own, if she hadn’t dragged him along with her like she always does, he would never have been hurt? All that pain he suffered, because of her. “If I hadn’t asked you to follow me-”

“I  _ chose _ to follow you! I’ve always chosen to,” and Malak snaps his gaze back up to hers again. There’s something fierce and burning in his eyes, in the Force, and he takes a step towards her. “And I’m going to continue to make that choice, wherever you go, for the rest of my life.” He’s close enough to touch now, just  _ looking _ at her, so intently.

Her throat is dry. “Why?” she asks, barely above a whisper. “I don’t deserve that kind of loyalty.” After everything she’s done to hurt him…

The wind whips a few strands of hair into her face and Malak lifts a hand and tucks them back behind her ear. It’s a gesture he’s made a hundred times, at least, and yet something feels  _ different _ about it now. Or maybe it’s always been like this and she’s just never noticed.

“Because,” he says, softly but still with that same fierceness, “you’re- Revan, you’re the compass I’ve always steered my life by. I don’t  _ want _ to be somewhere you aren’t.”

“I- I don’t understand,” Revan says, helplessly. She knows she’s missing something, but she can’t tell  _ what. _

“Of course you don’t,” he murmurs, with an amused huff, although she thinks he sounds sad. He closes the distance between them to kiss her forehead, softly, and then step back, and that makes her think of the night she’d gotten burned - the last thing she’d felt before passing out, she remembers distantly, was someone kissing her forehead. She’d thought she was dreaming, but-

And that reminds her of something else.  _ I like green better, _ and  _ my eyes are green, _ and  _ I know. _ She’d thought he sounded sad, then.

Wait.

Revan reaches out, instinctively, and catches Malak’s hand before he can step completely out of her reach, and he stills immediately at the touch. There’s something in the Force, in the way he’s not-quite meeting her eyes, and he’d said- He’d said he thought  _ her eyes _ are pretty.

And kissed her forehead. Then, and now. And held her close after so many nightmares, the times she’d let him, and always been  _ there _ the moment she needed him.  _ I don’t want to be somewhere you aren’t. _

“Revan-” he starts, and she can tell he’s going to backpedal. He’s already shifting to try and pull his hand free, probably unnerved by the way she’s been staring at him. Revan finds, abruptly, she doesn’t  _ want _ him to pull away. She’s reminded too much of a night by the fire and Bastila’s grey eyes - it’s the same feeling, only gentler, the soft glow of a candle rather than the burn of a fire.

Revan throws caution to the wind and kisses him.

She’s never kissed anyone before. It’s- strange, and she knows she’s clumsy, and for a moment Malak is stiff and frozen and she thinks maybe she misjudged everything, but then he  _ melts _ into her, tugs her against his chest and slips a hand into her hair, the other coming up to cup her cheek and trace her face, and suddenly it’s all a little easier. Their noses bump and she can’t help  _ giggling _ like a youngling, and then she has to pull back and press her forehead against his shoulder as she laughs. The Force, the very  _ air _ around them both feels so warm and bright, such a far cry from the icy cold she’d gotten used to, and it feels like freedom, like the plains of Dantooine, like racing through the airspace of Coruscant on a stolen speeder, laughter echoing in the wind and grins splitting their faces.

Malak presses his face into the top of her head, and she can feel his chest vibrating beneath her as he laughs too. “I wasn’t expecting that,” he says, muffled by her hair. “Now or ever, honestly.”

“How long have you wanted to kiss me for?” Revan asks, curiously, pulling back far enough she can see his face.

He pulls his hand free of her hair, rubs the back of his neck, ears going red, and ducks his chin, not meeting her eyes. “At least three years,” he admits, and she can’t help bursting into laughter again. “Don’t laugh at me, you’re the one with a direct link to my mind who didn’t even  _ notice.” _

Revan flushes, but determinedly holds his gaze. “At least I wasn’t pining away like-” She freezes, jaw dropping open for half a heartbeat before she grins gleefully. “You were just laughing at me, saying that Bastila and I were one of your soap operas! I thought you liked those for the  _ pining, _ Malak. How long were  _ you _ planning to be a soap opera protagonist, hmm?” She raises an eyebrow, though she can’t stop smiling.

Malak turns even redder, but he’s smiling. “They’re called-”

“Romantic dramas, I know,” Revan says, a little softer. She kissed him and nothing’s changed. Nothing  _ needs _ to change, she realizes; for all intents and purposes, they’ve practically been a couple for a long time. Hells, she’d even spent a night curled up in his arms in his bunk on the  _ Vengeance _ once after the Obliss affair. She’d been so afraid she’d lost him that she hadn’t been able to sleep without knowing he was there.

Malak grins at her, leans down to kiss her nose. He feels  _ happy, _ happier than she’s felt him in so long, and the warmth of that happiness banishes yet more of the cloud Vitiate has left around her shoulders. “You should leave your mask off while we’re here,” he says. “There’s no one around but me, and I miss seeing your face.”

Revan’s instinct is to say no, because she  _ hates _ not wearing her mask, but he’s right - it’s just the two of them and a desert and an endless expanse of tombs, and she’s missed the feeling of the wind on her skin. It’s been so long since she properly looked at a world without an HUD between herself and it.

“Okay, sure,” she says, smiling at him, sincere. “It’ll be good to let my face heal, anyway.” She’s been being good about applying kolto and changing the bandages - it hurts too much if she doesn’t - but it’s still been painful under her mask, and she knows it’s going to scar.

Malak takes her hand, squeezes her fingers. “Let’s go look around,” he suggests, then narrows his eyes at her. “And  _ no psychometry _ without warning me.”

“Yes, Master,” Revan grouses, pushing a wave of annoyance at him, but she lets him tug her off in the direction of one of the edges of the valley. He just laughs at her, the traitor.

She can’t manage to stay annoyed for long. Between his solid, warm, reassuring presence at her side and the excitement that’s always set in whenever she gets to explore a new ruin, Revan is skipping ahead of Malak in no time, pointing out the statues and the urns and the carved words covering the half-shattered edifices. She records everything she can, although she doesn’t recognize the language - maybe one of the Jedi historians will. She’d like to know what the Sith cover their tombs with.

They spend the entire first day finding and clearing out an entrance to the first tomb, which Revan’s map labels the tomb of Tulak Hord; they spend the night on the floor of the shuttle, because the winds don’t subside and it was already cool in daylight, and when the red sun sinks below the horizon the temperature drops substantially. Revan bundles them both up in blankets and Malak curls around her, and this time he doesn’t give the excuse that it’s for body heat as he tugs her against his chest. He presses a kiss to the back of her neck and then leans his forehead against the back of her head, and Revan wraps one hand around his where his arm is draped over her side.

She sleeps soundly that night.

The next day, they actually make their way into the tomb. Even worn by time as it is, it’s  _ beautiful; _ Revan can tell that it used to be as grand and imposing as the strongholds she’d seen in her vision. These days it seems to be less of a tomb and more of a home and a breeding grounds for the native fauna, which have all been clearly impacted by the strength of the Dark Side here - there’s some kind of cross between a kath hound and an akk dog, a twisted slug-like creature that spits acid, something invisible and shimmering in the Force that thankfully avoids them, and of course, the terentateks, though they only encounter one of those. The dogs, the slugs, and the winged shyrack are easy enough to defeat, though it gets exhausting cutting through them, and Malak gets a mild burn on his leg from acid. She does a little Force healing for him and they move on.

The tomb is a maze of grand arches and wide hallways and half-collapsed chambers, and it’s trapped too, with ancient droid guardians patrolling the halls and mines and puzzles blocking their entry. But the Rakatan ruins were full of traps themselves, and Revan is brilliant and Malak has an eye for these sort of things after three years of war, and so the tomb isn’t as difficult to get through as its designer probably wanted it to be.

Maybe they should try and reset the traps again before they leave, to discourage scavengers from picking through the tomb now that the worst of the danger is cleared out. Revan can feel the heart of Korriban in her own, now, and the planet deserves to be left alone, to preserve its tombs until its sun dies. Korriban has seen too much death.

It takes an entire day to explore the tomb, and by the time they reach as far as they can get without blowing up walls or rockfalls, Revan has to admit that this isn’t the place - she can’t sense the star map at all, and as fascinated as she is with the tomb, with its secrets (tablets covered in runes, broken shards of pottery inscribed with faded Aurebesh in a language she doesn’t know, items that practically glow with power), she doesn’t have the time to linger. Vitiate is the most important priority right now. Maybe after, she can come back here with Malak, and they can take their time.

It’s late at night by the time she and Malak trudge back to the shuttle. Revan blames the exhaustion from a day of digging through a half-collapsed tomb and the utter darkness of Korriban’s nighttime for the fact that she doesn’t notice a second ship in the valley, and for the fact that she doesn’t sense anyone else until she’s stepped into the small pool of light at the shuttle’s ramp.

“Hello, Revan,” a (thankfully familiar) voice says, and Revan whips her head up and twists around so quickly she nearly falls.

Bastila is sitting on the shuttle’s ramp, a cloak pulled tight around her to stave off the chill, and there’s a strange look in her grey eyes as she takes in the sight of Revan, still wearing Sith robes, covered in the dust and shattered bits of rock from the tomb, face bare to the sky. She must look strange, Revan finds herself thinking, but Bastila doesn’t say anything, just sits there.

“What are you doing here, Bastila?” Revan finally asks, as Malak walks up behind her. Apparently he’s paying more attention to the Force than she is, because he doesn’t look surprised - or, at least, he’s not surprised to see someone else. He  _ does _ feel surprised to see Bastila specifically. “I thought you’d be with the fleet.”

“I’m here on orders from the Jedi Council,” Bastila says, and Revan makes a face. After all, half the point of coming to Korriban as part of the scouting trip had been to keep the Council from finding out.

“I should’ve known Cressa would send them my message,” she mutters, absently reaches up to pick at the bandage on her face - it’s becoming a nervous tick, she’s noticed, when her mask isn’t there to stop her. Wordlessly, Malak reaches up and catches her hand, tugs it away from her cheek and twists their fingers together. She projects a light pulse of gratitude at him in response.

Bastila’s eyes linger on Revan’s hand where Malak’s holding it for longer than is strictly necessary. “The Chancellor didn’t tell them,” she says quietly, nearly defensive, and she lifts her eyes again to meet Revan’s gaze. “I did.”

Revan sucks in a sharp breath, presses her lips together and forces back the instinctive flare of sharp anger. “Why would you tell them that?” she asks, as steadily as she can, though she knows she’s gripping Malak’s hand so tightly it’s hurting him. He’s pushing  _ calm _ at her through their bond and it’s all she can do to let him. “I told you what I’ve been struggling with lately, I don’t need to deal with the Council on top of everything.”

“That’s exactly why I had to tell them,” Bastila says, and now that defensiveness is joined by a note of pleading. “You’re  _ struggling, _ Revan, and it’s not such a terrible thing to need help. And the rest of the Jedi deserve to know.”

Revan’s free hand clenches into a fist. “No one  _ deserves _ to know anything about me,” she snaps. “My weaknesses and my pains are  _ mine, _ and it’s my choice who I share them with. No one else’s, and  _ certainly _ not yours.”

“Your choices affect more than just you, Revan!” Bastila exclaims, pushing herself to her feet, eyes flashing a steely grey that would be more distracting if Revan wasn’t utterly  _ furious. _ “You have an entire fleet, an entire  _ galaxy, _ depending on you, and your mistakes cost  _ thousands _ of lives! When you become unstable enough to abandon a mission without even a warning, you’re not just risking yourself, but  _ everyone else _ under your command. I shouldn’t have to tell you this!”

Before Revan can snap back, Malak takes a step forward, concern and remorse glittering in his blue eyes, apology washing over her in waves, and she somehow knows what he’s going to say before he says it. “She’s right, Revan,” he says, soft, almost pleading. “I know you needed to get away from Vitiate, I could  _ feel _ it, but we abandoned our people. If Bastila had gotten caught, we wouldn’t have been there to save her, and she would’ve been counting on us. Not to mention Carth and his squad.”

Malak is siding against her.  _ Malak, _ her closest friend, her partner, her-  _ Malak _ is standing across from her and holding her hand in both of his and pleading with her to listen to him, silently.  _ Malak _ is agreeing that the Jedi Council have any kind of right to her life.

Malak is saying she’s  _ wrong. _

Revan yanks her hand free of his, takes a swift step back, something twisting in her stomach. “I don’t owe the Council anything,” she says, harsh. “And if you think I do, then we have nothing more to discuss, and you can get on that ship and  _ leave _ for all I care.”

She regrets the words the moment they leave her mouth.

_ Hurt _ flashes across Malak’s face and their bond, before she yanks her shields up as high as she can so she doesn’t have to feel it; Bastila physically recoils, eyes widening and looking nearly horrified. But Revan can’t take back the words, because her weaknesses - they are  _ hers, _ and no one else can choose to tell people about them. She  _ trusted _ Bastila. And Bastila betrayed that trust.

Revan backs up more, then turns, abruptly, and strides off into the night, pressing her mask against her face for the first time since they landed and tugging her hood up to cover her hair, pulling the Force around her like a shroud. By the time she’s ten meters from the shuttle she’s vanished into the shadows entirely.

Malak doesn’t call after her.

He always calls after her.

Why isn’t he?

~

It’s hard to breathe.

Malak watches Revan walk away, her figure dissolving into the darkness, and it’s all he can do to choke back her name, to trap his instinctive shout in his throat where it strangles him slowly. Bastila is staring in the same direction, somehow gone even more pale than she usually is, and her eyes dart to his.

“I didn’t mean to start a fight,” the younger Jedi admits, a flush of shame creeping up her neck. “I just- I’ve been  _ worried _ about her, and the Council is wise - I thought they’d have advice for me, on how to help. And it’s true that she  _ cannot _ abandon her troops on a mission, I thought she knew that well enough. I didn’t want to hurt her.”

“I know,” Malak manages, after a moment. He reaches out for Revan, through the Force, but he’s met with the kyber-sharp surface of her strongest shields; in his mind’s eye he can almost see the crystals frosting over the blank surface of her mask. These shields aren’t just to keep him out, they’re designed to actively  _ hurt _ him if he tries to push past them.

Revan’s  _ never _ done that before.

_ You can get on that ship and leave for all I care. _

Malak knows her. He  _ knows _ she didn’t mean it - not properly, anyway. He’s seen the fear in her eyes the times she’d thought he was going to leave. But that doesn’t change the fact that she  _ said _ it, and everything in him burns with the pain of it.

Was it really only a couple of days ago they stood on these plains and kissed for the first time, and he felt happy and at peace for the first time since the war began?

“Should I leave?” Bastila asks, her voice barely above a whisper. “The Council ordered- but I can make excuses.”

_ “No,” _ Malak says quickly, everything in him rebelling at the idea of being  _ alone _ here. There’s something distinctly malevolent about the Force here, and he knows, deep in his bones, that he doesn’t belong; Korriban is not friendly to outsiders. He’s only tolerated here because of Revan. “No, stay, please. We need to find Revan.”

“I don’t think she wants to be found.” Bastila sits back down on the ramp, drops her head into her hands, and Malak shivers a little as a particularly icy gust of wind hits him.

“I don’t care.”

“Malak, she told us to  _ leave. _ There’s nothing-”

Malak spins, his fear making him harsher than he means to be as he cuts her off. “You don’t know her like I do, Bastila,” he says, struggling to keep his tone even. He just- they don’t know  _ anything _ about Korriban, not really, despite what Revan says she’s seen and what they managed to discover about the local wildlife. It’s late at night and it’s cold and they were both exhausted by the day, and she doesn’t have any supplies. “She needs me.”

Bastila looks up at him, frowning a little, and there’s something softer and nearly sad in her eyes. “You’re always putting her above you,” she notes. “Why? You never put yourself first.”

“Because I  _ love her,” _ he says, paces a few steps forward and presses his hands into his forehead. She’s hurt him, more than once, but she always apologizes, she always comes back, and he  _ understands _ \- they’ve been through so much. He was with her for nearly every awful thing she saw and did.

“That’s not healthy,” Bastila says quietly. “You can’t keep putting her needs above your own. That’s the kind of attachment the Jedi Code warns about-”

_ “Kriff _ the Jedi Code,” Malak snaps. “It never did anything for either of us during the war, and it hasn’t helped her fight back against Vitiate.” On some level, he knows Bastila is right, but he’s spent his entire life in Revan’s shadow, in her footsteps, and he’s never needed anything more than that, to be her second, her right hand, the only one she utterly trusts.

So what if it’s not healthy?

“Malak-”

“I can’t leave her out there on her own,” he declares, abruptly. She’s blocking him out but he still has a sense of their bond, he should be able to find her. He’s always been able to find her, even when she doesn’t want to be found. 

_ “Malak,” _ Bastila says sharply, and for a moment there’s so much command in her tone he snaps to look at her instinctively. “You need to rest. She’ll come back soon, more than likely - she’s smart, she knows better than to try and spend a night alone out here.”

“What if she doesn’t?” he asks, because sure, Revan  _ is _ smart, brilliant in fact, but she’s hurting and angry and she never thinks quite clearly when she’s like this.

“Then we’ll go look for her, in the morning, once we’re both rested and we have light to see by.” Bastila’s voice is firm, but more gentle now.

Abruptly, he finds himself laughing, a little hysterically, but it’s better than the choking, short breaths he couldn’t get rid of. “I’m supposed to be the wise one here,” he says, dropping to sit down on the ramp next to the young Jedi. “I’m a Knight, I led an army against the Mandalorians, and yet you, a  _ padawan _ fresh from the Enclave, have to tell me not to run off like a fool.”

“Rational decisions are difficult when one is emotional,” Bastila says, and Malak has to wonder if she’s imitating Vandar on purpose or if she really is quoting the old Master at him.

He’d prefer the former, but somehow he suspects it’s the latter.

“I need to sleep,” he admits, rubs at his eyes. There’s still that ever-persistent worry for Revan threatening to consume him, but he forces it back as best he can; she’s the one who’s safest here, after all. Korriban tolerates Malak, and  _ hates _ Bastila, but Revan it’s welcomed home with open arms.

He doesn’t want to think about why that is.

(He already knows.)

“If we sleep inside the ship, will we be safe to not post a watch?” Bastila asks, and Malak nods.

“That’s what Revan and I have been doing. There aren’t any fully-sentient species here, just the wildlife, and they tend to hide inside the tombs.”

“Good.” Bastila pushes to her feet, pulling her robes tighter around her. “Let’s sleep, and in the morning, Revan should be back. If she’s not, I promise, we’ll stop at nothing to get her back.”

She’s right. Revan may have said he should leave, but it’s always when she pushes him away that she needs him the most. And maybe it  _ isn’t _ healthy, but he’s in far too deep to worry about that now.

It’s far too late to care.

~

Revan walks for a long time, through the darkness. She walks until she can’t see even a hint of light from her shuttle or Bastila’s ship, until she’s alone, perched on the top of a craggy mound of rock, the faint light from four moons and the cacophony of starlight just enough to illuminate her path. She doesn’t entirely know where she’s going, as long as it’s  _ away; _ she needs space, she needs to breathe, to process, and she can’t do that with Malak and Bastila there. 

Even with the darkness and the cold, Korriban is beautiful. There’s no light pollution whatsoever, and when she stares up into the sky she can see millions of stars, glittering like the crystal caves on Ilum. The sight reminds her of so many nights kneeled on the floor of her room on the  _ Vengeance, _ staring out ner narrow window, struggling to meditate away the struggles and pains of so many battles.

Meditation. Maybe that’s what she needs right now.

Revan kneels down on the stony ground and closes her eyes, falling into the familiar breathing exercises and reaching out into the Force, letting it wrap around her until there’s nothing left but her awareness of it.

But there’s no peace to be found in the Force. Not here, not now, not after the news that the Council  _ knows. _ Revan doesn’t know what all Bastila told them, exactly, but from their conversation she can guess it’s closer to  _ everything _ than  _ nothing. _ And Revan had confessed her fears to Bastila in  _ confidence, _ she’d-  _ trusted _ her.

Maybe that was her mistake. Trusting someone who isn’t Malak, hasn’t been by her side since they were children, who hasn’t been through everything she has. Someone who has no hope of understanding.

(But when Revan thinks back to the warmth in Bastila’s grey eyes, to the soft touch of her hand on Revan’s shoulder, she can’t quite make herself regret it.)

Revan gives up on the meditation as futile and gets to her feet again. There’s something tugging her further away from the valley, and she can’t go back yet, between her pain and her pride, so she gathers the Force around her for protection and starts off again, hiking through fields of shattered stone and climbing over boulders and twisted spires of rock. She comes across animals from time to time, mostly the shyrack, but they avoid her - they’re hunting other prey, and Korriban protects her.

She walks for a couple of hours. Part of her wonders if Malak and Bastila are looking for her, if they even  _ want _ to, or if they’ve left by now, if she’s truly alone here. They wouldn’t  _ leave, _ would they? Malak had said -  _ I don’t want to be somewhere you aren’t. _ But she’d told him to go.

She can’t make herself drop her shields to check.

The Force - or the planet, whatever it is that’s guiding her - leads her to a cave half-hidden by tumbled rocks, and she hesitates at the entrance. It’s pitch black inside, and even the HUD in her mask struggles to make anything out, but the Force is persistent -  _ through here, _ it whispers,  _ you will find what you seek. _ She doesn’t know what it means; the star map, maybe, or something else, something it’s decided will help her. She doesn’t  _ have _ to go in, and really, she probably shouldn’t on her own - Malak will scold her for the risk.

But he didn’t come after her.

Revan pulls her white saber off her belt and steps into the cave, igniting the beam and holding it up to light her path. She’s not afraid of the dark places here. If Mandalore couldn’t kill her, if Vitiate couldn’t kill her, what can Korriban do to her?

The cave is long and winding, mostly one narrow path that twists through the mountain, more like a tunnel than anything else, and the walls are marked with rough-hewn runes and art: two peoples wielding lightsabers clash over and over again, and in the shadows cast by her lightsaber she can almost see the story playing out. A war, bloody and awful, and at first one side wins countless battles, its opponents unprepared for its savagery and lightning-quick attacks. But then the other side marshals its larger resources and wages a destructive, unstoppable campaign, finally beating the others - the  _ Sith, _ she realizes - back to their homeworld of Korriban. The Sith scatter, and the one this tomb was made for, their Dark Lord who began the doomed war against the Republic, vanishes to another world, where he dies in disgrace.

Revan knows this story, in fragments. The Great Hyperspace War. When the Jedi fought the Sith back and made them extinct. But this mural… the Sith never really were extinct, she realizes, scanning the walls, finding more and more drawings. The Jedi destroyed Korriban, eradicated everyone on its surface, but the most powerful Sith took their households and fled into the Unknown Regions, and the Jedi sank into complacency as a result.

They were never  _ gone. _ Just in hiding. And now they’re a force to be reckoned with again.

The walls are filled with other carvings as well, and Revan can’t help wishing she could read the writings - she could teach herself, if necessary, and it wouldn’t take too long (she’s always been good with languages, knows more than most Jedi), but she doesn’t have the time to spare. It’s a shame, because she  _ knows _ there’s more to the stories than just what she can discern, but she isn’t here for the history, as much as she might wish she was. Still, she spends far longer than necessary in the cave tunnel, waving her lightsaber over the pictures and piecing together the history of the Dark Lord entombed in this mountain. 

She doesn’t know his name. The walls probably record it, but she can’t read the letters to find out. But he led the Sith at the height of their golden era, until he went to war with the Republic, and it’s clear he was respected, at least until he lost.

Eventually, the cave widens out a little and comes to a half at a large stone door set with a glowing rune. It looks too heavy to move; she walks up to it, cautiously, and brushes a hand against its surface. There’s a tingle of electricity that jolts through her whole body, and then the door swings inward, slow and ponderous, grinding against the floor and ceiling. Beyond is a hallway that expands into a large room, lit by wall sconces and braziers on the floor all glowing with a spectral blue flame. This must be the main tomb, she realizes.

Before she can step inside, though, a…  _ spirit _ appears.

A man, she thinks, tall, robed and armored with a lightsaber on his hip, and a presence in the Force, though it’s more muted than a living person’s would be. One of the many ghosts still tied to this planet.

“Who are you?” Revan asks warily, keeping a firm grip on her lightsaber.

“I am a servant of the Sith,” the ghost says. “I protect the tomb from those who are unworthy of its secrets.”

“I’m looking for an artifact,” she tells him, staying in a slightly defensive position, although really, she’s not sure how she could fight a ghost, if he chose to attack her. Her lightsaber likely wouldn’t affect him - the Force might, but how do you meaningfully hurt a ghost? “An ancient star map. It’d be kept in a black monument older than the Sith Order, even older than the Jedi.”

“I know of what you seek. It is here, in this tomb.” So the Force knew what it was doing after all - it usually does. Revan takes a step forward, only for the ghost to suddenly be directly in front of her, much closer. “Only those who are deemed worthy may enter.”

Revan frowns. “You can feel my command of the Force, you know I’m strong. I defeated Mandalore the Ultimate in single combat, as well as one of your Darths. I don’t need to  _ prove myself.” _

“It is not your strength in question, Jedi.” The ghost’s expression is strangely serene, for a Sith. “I am to test your understanding of the way of the Sith. Once you begin the test, you will either pass it or you will die. Are you ready?”

The way of the Sith. There’s a Sith Code, but she doesn’t know it; all she knows of the Sith is what little the Jedi had taught her and what she’d learned from Vitiate. They follow the Dark Side, they want to wipe out the galaxy, they destroy rather than create, they seek to conquer and enslave the galaxy. They harness their negative emotions - fear and anger - and revel in their passions and they have no self-control. Only the strong survive and a person receives nothing but that which they can take. Power is absolute, but it is not forever. 

“If I have no choice,” she says through gritted teeth. She’s no Sith, she’s a Jedi, and she’s only here for one thing; she shouldn’t have to  _ prove herself _ to some long-dead Sith ghost so much a servant he doesn’t even have a name. “I’m ready.”

She’s expecting some kind of quiz, or a fight, or something to prove her power and her mastery of the Force. It’s none of that.

The room around her fades away, and suddenly she’s standing somewhere else, too familiar, red carpet under her feet and pillars marching down beside her and a throne at the end of the room, and a hooded man standing in front of it, waiting for her. She’s armored for war in her new robes, her proper mask fitted to her face, hood tight against her head and cape drifting out behind her, both lightsabers in her hands, blades fully lit and glowing. There are people with her - Malak on one side, she thinks Bastila on her other, and more behind. They’ve invaded Dromund Kaas, fought their way through the Dark Temple, and now they stand here, on the edge of victory.

At the far end of the room, the hooded man lifts his hands and throws back his hood, revealing his pale face and red eyes. “You think you can defeat me?” Vitiate asks, scornfully. “Here in the heart of my power?” He lifts his hands from his sides and holds them out, purple sparks filling his palms and curling around his fingers, and then he points and lightning arcs out, slams into the floor as Malak and Bastila dodge. “You are truly fools.”

A handful of Jedi pour forward, around Revan, and Malak leads them to attack Vitiate, and the Emperor is twisting the Force, throwing lightning and pure  _ waves _ of power out, using both hands to kill and throw away his enemies, until abruptly there’s a lightsaber hilt in one hand and he ignites a vivid red blade. The saber arcs through the air and Bastila  _ screams, _ and Revan’s never heard the sound before but somehow she knows, she knows, and the younger Jedi collapses to the floor, hands pressing at a gaping hole in her stomach. Malak steps between her and Vitiate and the Emperor laughs, his lightsaber blade wreathed in arcs of lightning, and he twirls it and brings it crashing into Malak’s blue blade. The single blow causes him to stagger.

_ Anger _ rises thick and choking in Revan’s throat. For a moment all she can think is that she  _ must kill Vitiate, _ he’s hurt Bastila and killed several Jedi already and he’s going to kill Malak, and she’s raising her sabers and starting to run at him-

_ I am to test your understanding of the way of the Sith. _

A test. This is a test. A test for some mouldering old ghost in a tomb, for a  _ servant _ who thinks he can force Revan to face Vitiate killing people she cares for with no consequences, who thinks he can twist her and manipulate her and turn her fears against her, who thinks she is inherently weak because she is Jedi, because she’s no Dark Lord.

Revan knows the icy sharpness of  _ hate. _

She is Revan, Jedi Knight, hero of the Republic, master tactician, killer of Mandalore the Ultimate, the youngest Jedi to ever be named a Master of Jar’kai. She is Revan, killer of Darth Incendius and Darth Rivitz, Vitiate’s champion who refuses to bow, Korriban’s chosen one, heir to the Infinite Empire, conqueror of the Sith and savior of the galaxy.

She is  _ Revan. _

And this ghost, this tomb, this test - they are  _ nothing. _

“I refuse,” Revan says, cold, calm, and she wraps herself in the strength of her hatred and her rage until the Force whirls around her, and she returns her lightsabers to her belt.  _ Anyone less powerful than you is beneath you, _ Vitiate says. How  _ dare _ this servant of the Sith, not even a proper Sith himself, think himself her equal. How  _ dare _ he pass judgement on her. “I’m no one’s pawn, no one’s servant, and I will  _ not _ be treated as such by a lesser being.”

She is Revan. She killed eight Sith with nothing more than her will and her pure, concentrated, focused  _ fury.  _ This is child’s play.

Revan reaches into the Force with all her power in a controlled sweep, and she finds the source of this vision, this hallucination, this dream, and she takes it into her grip and she  _ breaks _ it.

And the vision  _ shatters. _

She’s back in the tomb, the braziers and sconces lighting up the room, and the very air around her shimmers with a deep crimson aura. The servant is still in front of her, but where before he’d been on his feet, face utterly emotionless, he’s now dropping to his knees before her, awe and shock and astonishment on his face.

“You are Sith’ari,” he breathes. “I am  _ honored _ to be in your presence.”

Revan doesn’t know what the word means - she recognizes  _ Sith, _ but the suffix is strange, and the  _ weight _ with which the ghost says it turns it into a title of some significance, but  _ what _ she doesn’t know - but she notes it down, mentally, tries to calm the anger still sparking across her skin. “I have business in the tomb, servant,” she says, voice cool and sharp.

The servant rises, head still bowed, and steps out of her way. “Of course, my lord,” he says. “I will be of no further hinderance to you, and if I can assist you in any manner, please, just speak. I am here to serve.” There’s a pause.

“Welcome to the tomb of the Dark Lord of the Sith, Naga Sadow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from kotor on Korriban:
> 
>  **Yuthura:** This... has been argued over, and often. The chains represent our restrictions, both those placed upon us and those we place upon ourselves. Ultimately the goal of any Sith is to free herself from such restrictions. In a way, it is so we may do whatever we wish... but it is much more than that. One who has freed themselves from all restrictions has reached perfection. Their potential fulfilled. Perfect strength, perfect power, perfect destiny. Imagine it. That is our ideal, at any rate. It is said in Sith legend that the 'Sith'ari'... the perfect being... will one day lead us. But perhaps that is just a legend.
> 
>  **Revan:** You don't think the Sith'ari can exist?
> 
>  **Yuthura:** I... wonder what a being would be like. The legends say the Sith'ari will destroy us... and make us stronger than ever. But perhaps that is just a legend. Perfection is... a goal, I think, rather than a state of being. The Jedi would argue that, no doubt.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy jesus this chapter never wanted to end. time for a bit of a rollercoaster ride! there's a lot going on in this chapter, including FINALLY the beginning of proper OT3 content, even though my brain is convinced that 70k words is still too short for actual romance. (i'm a slow burn writer, can you tell?) but anyway, everything is Finally coming together now, and i'm super super excited to share this chapter with you.
> 
> if i had enough of an idea of what was going on to divide this fic into parts, i'd call this the end of part one. as it is, it's the end of all the leadups and the support quests and things. the real deal is beginning, so everyone strap in, things are gonna get Intense.
> 
> next chapter is back to Coruscant to check in with Qatya! 
> 
> finally, don't forget to leave me a comment <3

Revan doesn’t explore the tomb of Naga Sadow right away. She’s  _ exhausted, _ and even though that exhaustion had been in part driven back by her emotions, once she’s finally managed to banish the worst of her anger at the servant the energy keeping her awake disappears. So she orders the servant to keep watch, kill anything that would harm her, and wake her if any Jedi come looking for her; normally, she wouldn’t trust a ghostly Sith servant on a half-hostile planet that may or may not want to kill her, but he hasn’t stopped calling her  _ my lord _ and  _ Sith’ari _ since she broke his test (not passed,  _ broke; _ when pressed, the servant had explained that no one should be able to simply refuse to make a decision, and that the test had worked exactly as it should on everyone else who’d attempted to enter.  _ You showed the highest, most prized of Sith ideals, _ he’d said,  _ absolute control over your anger and fear, allowing you to turn your emotions into a weapon to rival your lightsabers. Self control is the ultimate tenet of the Sith, though many do not understand that). _ He respects her, is in awe of her, and follows her orders - she’ll be safe enough here for the rest of the night.

Her sleep is restless, marked by vague senses of dread, filled with whispers and ghosts and the image of Vitiate stabbing Bastila, preparing to stab Malak, but when she wakes up several hours later she at least feels physically rested.

_ Physically. _ She’s not sure any amount of sleep could bring back her emotional energy. It’s been a long time since she was truly at peace.

The servant informs her that he’d dealt with a colony of shyrack that attempted to disturb her rest, but that no one else had accessed the tomb from either entrance - the front entrance is half-caved in, but still accessible with the right tools, or the Force - and that her comm hadn’t gone off. Though she’d known that last bit already; she’s a light sleeper, and after three years of war, her comm wakes her immediately.

“I need to find the star map,” Revan tells him as she stretches out the kinks in her muscles (sleeping on a stone floor isn’t exactly the most comfortable). The burn on her face is beginning to itch beneath her mask - she hadn’t taken it off while she slept, uncomfortable with the idea of the servant seeing her face, and between that and the fact that she hasn’t changed the kolto or the bandages in a while, it’s getting uncomfortable. But there’s nothing she can do about it until she gets the map and gets back to the shuttle. “Do you know where it is?”

“I do, my lord,” the servant says. “I will lead you to it, if you wish. But there are many other secrets in this tomb, and many artifacts of power that may help you in your journeys. If I may ask, my lord… what is it you are hoping to accomplish?”

“I intend to kill the Sith Emperor,” Revan says, matter-of-factly. “He’s taken what’s mine, and harmed both me and my closest friend, my partner, and he  _ will _ pay for it. Does that bother you?”

“No. You are Sith’ari, the one who will destroy the Sith, and who will make us more powerful than ever.”

She blinks, behind her mask, though she keeps her shields high, not wanting the servant to sense her confusion. “Isn’t that an inherent contradiction?” she asks, light, careful. The servant respects her now, and follows her, but she doesn’t think it’d be a good idea to reveal just how little she truly knows of the Sith, their traditions, their culture, their history, their philosophy - their prophecy.

“My lord, you of all people should know that destruction is an integral part of creation. Conflict and war are what drives society to flourish, to reach new heights of progress and innovation, and without death, without destruction, nothing new can be made. Many trees will only release their seeds in the blazing heat of a forest fire.” The servant gestures at a hallway deeper into the tomb, and Revan follows the gesture, considering his words. “In death, I have reached a state of power I never could in life. All the war Korriban has seen, all the bloodshed, have only strengthened it as a nexus of the Dark Side.”

It’s an interesting theory, and oddly similar to some of the lectures she remembers as a youngling and a padawan, the idea that death is a natural and necessary part of life, and so Jedi shouldn’t mourn the dead, not really. Grief is allowed and encouraged, of course, but it’s to be tempered with the knowledge that the dead have become one with the Force. “I suppose you’re right,” she says, thoughtfully. “Death is a natural part of the cycle of the galaxy, and I can’t deny that I’m stronger with the Force now than I was when I first left to fight.” She never would’ve been able to kill eight Sith with just the Force, back then.

She wouldn’t have had the power, or the anger, or the cold resolve it took. 

“The war you’ve fought has strengthened your connection to the Force and stretched the limits of your power,” the servant says, and she nods. “War breeds the emotions we Sith seek to master and turn into weapons against our foes - anger, fear, passion, pain. A strong Sith can use not only their own emotions, but the emotions of everyone around them to fuel their power.”

“What about love?” Revan asks curiously. They turn another corner, and she passes one of the braziers with its ghostly flames, notices absently the fire doesn’t put off any heat.

“Love?” The servant is quiet for a moment, takes her down through a T intersection and waves open a stone door with a glowing glyph on it, similar to the entrance. “Love is a source of immense power, to be certain, but it is also a source of something far more dangerous: mercy.”

Revan thinks of Obliss, of Malak on his knees surrounded by Sith. “I’d raze the galaxy to save the people I love,” she says, and is nearly surprised when she realizes that’s the truth.

“As I said, immense power. But would you be able to kill the ones you love if they turned out to be your enemies?”

“He’d  _ never _ betray me,” Revan snaps. “He’s my partner, my closest friend, he’s been by my side since we were children. I’ll never raise a lightsaber against him, and I know he’d never hurt me.” Even the  _ thought _ of Malak turning against her - it sends a bolt of fear sharp through her, followed by anger at this servant, who dares to insinuate that she can’t trust  _ Malak _ of all people.

“You are powerful, my lord, and eventually, he will covet that power, and the place in the spotlight that gives you. The greatest of the Dark Lords surrounded themselves not with those they cared for, but with those who were bound to them by ties much greater than something as fickle as love and loyalty. Your power will draw others to you, but it will also turn them against you, and you must always be prepared. Never trust your master, never trust your apprentice, and never truly let your guard down around your lovers.” The servant gestures towards the door he’d opened. “In here you will find a weapon that will aid you in your fight against the Emperor.”

The servant’s words are familiar - Vitiate had said something similar while she investigated the Citadel. The Sith have so  _ little _ trust for each other, and yet… Revan trusts very few people explicitly, these days. How long has it been since she allowed her common soldiers, even her officers, to see her face? But she doesn’t think they’ll  _ betray _ her. She’s their symbol of victory, their legend; they’ll follow her no matter what she does and where she goes, because she’s saved the galaxy. 

“What kind of weapon?” she asks, instead of arguing the point - she  _ knows _ Malak won’t betray her. “There’s very little that could truly hurt him, he’s so powerful.”

“The lightsabers you wield are adequate, and they are bound to you,” the servant says, “but they’ll do nothing against the most powerful of Sith lightning. The crystals aren’t powerful enough alone to absorb the full strength of the Dark Side when a true Emperor uses it.” He walks into the room and she follows him - it’s some kind of armory, with weapon and armor racks and workbenches and technology scattered all over the place. There’s a strange contraption at the far end of the room, next to a table, a secured box resting on it, and the servant comes to a stop beside it. “Look into the box,” he tells her.

Revan hesitates, but she can feel- something, in the Force, and she runs her fingers over the box for a moment before lifting the lid. Inside, nestled securely in soft velvet, are rows of-  _ kyber crystals. _ They sing in the Force, welcoming, and she’s trailing her fingers over the crystals before she can think better of it.

“Choose the four that call most strongly to you,” the servant tells her, “and place them here.” He indicates a tray on the side of the machine.

“What is this?” she asks, though she doesn’t hesitate to pick up the crystals. They feel almost heavy in her palms as she sets them carefully down.

“How do you build a lightsaber?”

“With the Force,” Revan answers, remembering sitting on a woven mat in a room on Dantooine, eyes closed, reaching into the Force to assemble the components of her lightsaber around her newly-received kyber crystal, taken from the caves on Ilum. She’d been - eleven, maybe twelve, at the time, and only her eagerness to  _ finally _ hold a proper lightsaber in her hands had let her sit still and fall into meditation long enough to build it. The warm feeling when she’d taken the finished saber into her hands and ignited it, revealing the violet blade - unusual, though not unheard of - had been her first true taste of the feeling of victory.

“Lightsaber components do not need to be together to be used, except for the power cell and the kyber crystals. With enough control over the Force and enough focus, one can assemble a lightsaber from trace minerals.” Revan frowns, but- it makes sense, actually. Lightsabers are bonded together with the Force, not with any kind of material. “Remove your bracers and insert your arms into the machine, if you would, my lord. It needs to measure your arms.”

Revan does as she’s told. “I admit,” she says in a low voice, “I don’t entirely understand.”

“There will come a time when your current lightsabers won’t be enough,” the servant says. “When that happens, you must be prepared - you are Sith’ari, I would not see you die because your weapons aren’t powerful enough. Even Jedi aren’t forbidden to wear some jewelry - or so was the case when I was alive - and no one will suspect a pair of ornamented bracers to be more than they seem.”

Oh.  _ Oh. _

It only takes a moment for a pair of identical bracers to be spat out of the machine; they’re a soft copper in color, lined with black and red, each one set with two faintly-glowing kyber crystals. Flexible but firm, woven with cortosis, but lightweight, the new bracers are more comfortable than the beskar ones she’d stolen off a dead Mandalorian and had adjusted to fit her. She looks them over after she’s fastened them on, and she has to admit - they match her new robes well. No one will think anything of them.

“I wouldn’t tell anyone what they are,” the servant says as he starts towards the entrance to the room again. “Secret weapons tend to lose their edge when they’re no longer a secret.”

He’s right, she knows. But Malak and Bastila will ask questions, and she can trust them, can’t she?  _ The Chancellor didn’t tell the Council, I did. _ Well- Malak at least can be trusted with this, she trusts him with  _ everything, _ and she knows he won’t tell anyone else. Won’t he?

Revan thinks about it for a moment,  _ really _ thinks. Malak is her partner, her best friend, they’ve been inseparable since they first met; he’s saved her life countless times, always had her back against the Council, against the Mandalorians, against everything they’ve ever faced. They’ve always been together, but she knows he doesn’t always approve of her decisions - some of her sacrifices early on had sparked genuine fights between them (they’d never truly fought before, not about anything that mattered, not without almost immediately apologizing and making up), and when she’d first started pursuing the star maps, he’d argued against it. The Jedi would cast them out, he’d said, this was something they couldn’t come back from.

He’ll keep her secret, that she knows. But he’ll be worried about her, and he’ll disapprove, and he might even tell her to get rid of them, saying she can’t trust kyber crystals stolen from a Sith tomb, that she’s a  _ Jedi, _ she shouldn’t be using Sith artifacts. And if this weren’t a war, she’d agree with him, but she’s sworn to do whatever she must to fight Vitiate, and if that means using items of power gifted to her by a Sith ghost, then… she’ll do what she must.

So Malak can’t know. It’s better that she be the one to bear this knowledge, that he doesn’t worry more than he already does.

“I understand,” Revan says, and she follows the servant away from the armory.

They walk through several hallways and more large atriums, some home to various nests of animals - Revan takes care of them with ease, and she forces herself not to spend all the time she wants inspecting the carvings on the walls and the tablets and the murals. The tomb is  _ fascinating, _ much better preserved than Tulak Hord’s - she has to wonder how much of that is due to the servant - and she could gladly spend weeks in here, just  _ learning. _ She tells the servant this and he just chuckles and says she’s more than welcome to return at any time - she is Sith’ari, Korriban is open to her.

Maybe she’ll have time, at some point during this war, or after it. She could bring Malak and they could explore together.

The star map is in a chamber deep inside the tomb, on the far side of a pool of acid. The servant explains she’ll need to acquire a cryogrenade from a further chamber, one guarded by two terentateks. Terentateks aren’t exactly  _ simple, _ on her own - they’re resistant to the Force and three times her size and far quicker than one would expect - but she’d had to face a krayt dragon and a massive firaxan shark and a semi-sentient computer for the other three, and she might’ve had Alek with her then but two terentateks is nothing compared to staring down the open maw of a fully-grown krayt.

She handles them easily enough - lightsabers spinning, the Force buoying her speed and her reaction time - manages to kill them with only a small gash on her upper arm. Her robes tear there and she’s almost more annoyed about that than the blood. Pain is temporary; she’s endured so much of it over the last few months it’s become her new normal. Tears in her brand new robes, however, mean she has to  _ sew, _ and she’s never had the patience for that.

She’ll have Malak fix it for her once they’re back on the  _ Vengeance. _

Specialty cryogrenade in hand, Revan makes her way back to the acid pool and uses the grenade to freeze it, crosses over the thick, greenish ice with some trepidation, makes her way into the back chamber. There’s a familiar black monument there, three prongs closed and pointing up to the ceiling; she reaches into the Force and brushes a gloved hand over its surface and the Rakata structure hums and whirs to life. The three prongs unfold like flower petals and within them is the familiar glowing galaxy map, and she grins behind her mask, pulls out her datastick and inserts it into the interface.

“Interesting,” the servant observes. She’d nearly forgotten he was there. “I’ve never seen it do that before.”

“It’s Infinite Empire technology,” Revan tells him absently as she waits for the data to download. “From the ancient Rakata, who ruled the galaxy before the Republic or the Jedi existed.”

“These are coordinates, yes?”

She nods, pulls the datastick out with a flourish and tucks it securely in a belt pouch. “To the location of a powerful weapon, yes. The maps are old and degraded, and I’ve had to piece together information from five maps total to find everything. This is the last one.” It takes a moment, but she finds the slight depression that will make the star map close up again - she doubts anyone else could make it this far into the tomb, especially without help, but she doesn’t want anyone to see the map regardless. “Can you lead me to the entrance? Preferably one closer to the Valley of the Dark Lords.”

“I can, my lord,” the servant says, bowing his head. “That particular entrance is blocked by rubble, but with your strength in the Force you should be able to clear it easily enough.”

“Thank you.” The servant has been- helpful, surprisingly so, and she really doubts she would’ve made it very far without him. Finding the map would’ve taken days, probably, and she never would’ve ended up with a pair of bracers that can be snap-constructed into ultra-powerful lightsabers. But she isn’t going to give him more than the barest thanks - he tested her by tearing open her mind and forcing her to confront her worst fears, giving her even more fodder for her nightmares, and he’s Sith. She may be accepting his help (she can’t afford not to), but that doesn’t mean she agrees with him or his principles. 

Though some of them hadn’t been so different from her own.

She’s silent as she follows the servant to the tomb’s main entrance; he doesn’t speak either, except to warn her of traps, and while she has no real concept of time inside the tomb, she’s fairly sure it takes them less than an hour to reach the point where rubble has sealed everything off. “Do you have any orders for me, my lord?” the servant asks.

Revan considers for a moment. “Keep watch over the tomb,” she says finally. “I don’t want anyone except for me or my two friends, Malak and Bastila, allowed inside. This tomb’s secrets are mine.”

“As you wish.” The servant bows a little deeper. “You have my oath, Lord Revan.”

He’s been calling her  _ my lord _ since she passed his test. Somehow, this rings a little different.

She shakes herself a little, turns to the collapsed rubble, and reaches into the Force; it leaps to her bidding, and it’s easy to stretch out her hands and shift the heaviest pieces to the side, to shove the lighter boulders  _ forward _ and  _ out _ until clear, bright daylight is streaming through. Revan doesn’t turn back to see if the servant is still watching her, just adjusts her cloak and hood, makes sure her mask is secure (and the burn on her face  _ itches _ and aches, but she’ll deal with that later), and pushes her shoulders back and strides out into the Valley of the Dark Lords. She doesn’t know what she’ll find.

The ships are both still there - the stolen Imperial shuttle and the Republic vessel Bastila had brought in last night - but she can’t sense any life forms around. The valley is as desolate as it was yesterday  _ (yesterday, _ she’d left at some point in the night and now judging by the sun it’s late afternoon, she’s been gone for over twelve hours, probably closer to sixteen), the wind whistling around her and whipping her cloak up along with the dust, and she runs her hands over her new bracers, the metal as gently-warm to the touch as her lightsabers, the four kyber crystals pulsing like miniature heartbeats. The feeling soothes her, and she starts up again, crossing the sands with a determined stride.

Whatever reception is waiting for her, she’ll face it, like she faced every challenge in the war - mask on, shoulders back, focused and unflinching.

When Revan reaches the stolen shuttle, the ramp is down, but it’s empty, the lights off. Bastila’s ship is sealed, but when she lowers the ramp and heads inside, it’s empty as well, though there’s remains of a meal spread out across the table in the galley. The sight of the food reminds her that she hasn’t eaten since the night before, and she pulls off her mask and finds a spare ration packet, tears it open and gulps it down without bothering to heat it. They can cook something proper to eat later, once they’re in hyperspace, on their way to the fleet. Maybe Revan will even sit and eat it with them instead of retreating so she doesn’t have to show her face.

She finishes the ration as quickly as she can, returns her mask to her face - grimacing as the burn on her cheek aches in protest - and looks around, stretches her senses out into the Force again. There’s still nothing. The ships are empty.

The ships are  _ empty. _

Revan bolts to her feet and is out of the ship before she has time to get in a full breath. Where is Malak? Where is Bastila? Oh, Force, she told them to  _ leave, _ but they would’ve taken a ship if they’d left, right? Could they have commed the fleet and already been picked up?

They could’ve. It’s been long enough, according to the ship’s chrono. Revan told them to leave and they  _ left, _ Malak’s gone, and she’s had the bond so tightly shielded, he  _ left her, _ she’s  _ alone. _

“Malak?” she calls, the wind ripping the name away as soon as she speaks it. Her chest is heaving and she can’t seem to get any air, and it feels like the planet has dropped out from under her feet. “Malak!  _ Alek, _ where are you?”

There’s no answer. She didn’t  _ mean it, _ Force, she didn’t want him to leave, she  _ needs _ him. She hasn’t been truly, properly alone in so long, they’re  _ always _ together, and oh, Force, gods above and below, she’ll never argue with him again if he’ll just- “Come back,” she says, hoarse and quiet, her voice nearly broken. She doubts anyone more than a few meters away could hear.

A gleam of sunlight flashes off her wrist and she remembers, suddenly - they’re not on Dromund Kaas, they’re not under an enforced comm-silence. She’s never fumbled her way to a comm frequency so quickly before.

“Alek?” she says into the comm, unable to stifle the sheer  _ panic _ in her voice.  _ Please don’t be gone, please answer, please answer, please don’t leave me. _ “Alek, are you there? Force, please be there.”

_ “Revan?” _ He responds nearly-instantly, and the wash of relief has her knees buckling. She hits the ground hard, sags back against the ramp to the nearby ship, closes her eyes. 

“I came back to the ships and you were  _ gone,” _ she says shakily, tries to stop the tears she can feel building up. “I didn’t- I’m so sorry, I didn’t want you to leave.”

_ “I know. But where the hells have you been? You scared the  _ kriff _ out of me, Revan. We’ve been looking for you all day.” _ Malak’s voice is nearly as shaky as her own.  _ “Stay there, we’re on our way back, it shouldn’t be long.” _

They didn’t leave. She snapped at them both and they  _ stayed. _

Revan gives up on keeping back the tears.

“I was in a tomb,” she manages, finds the strength to pick herself up off the ground and move to sit down further up the ship’s ramp. “I found the last star map.” She’s proud of how steady she manages to sound, despite the tears. Oh, he’ll know something’s wrong, but Bastila might not.

_ “Don’t  _ ever _ do that to me again,”  _ Malak snaps.  _ “Understand? What if you’d been attacked? You could’ve  _ died! _ And I would’ve had no idea, no way to help!” _

She- hadn’t thought of that. “I’m sorry,” she says again. “Malak, I didn’t mean- I just- I wasn’t thinking.”

_ “Clearly.” _ His voice goes quieter.  _ “I’ve never been that scared in my life, Rev.” _

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. She isn’t even sure he hears.

He doesn’t respond, and after a moment she lets the comm fall, closes her eyes and tips her head back. While she was out gallivanting through a tomb and chatting up a Sith ghost and getting secret weapons to use against Vitiate, her partner has been searching an unfamiliar planet for any sign of her, terrified out of his mind. Not only did she snap at him, tell him to  _ leave her, _ she then ran off, risked her life and the entire galaxy all because of- of what? Her pride? If she’d died out here, what would happen to the Republic? No one else could ever hope to stop Vitiate.

Gods, she’s a mess.

It’s almost an hour before she hears footsteps. She’s been sitting in silence on the ramp, trying not to think and running her fingers over every pattern in her new bracers, learning the feeling of them by heart. To make them actually effective, she’ll need to grab a pair of spare power cells from the  _ Vengeance _ and keep them on her at all times, but that really isn’t much of a problem when weighed against the advantage that having a second, secret set of weapons is. It’ll be a good reassurance to have them ready to use.

The footsteps aren’t loud, but she’s been waiting, and the only other sounds are her breathing and the wind, so she hears them immediately, snaps to her feet and jumps off the ramp and takes a few steps around the side of the ship. And there’s Malak, in the distance, Bastila next to him, both of them wrapped in cloaks and hooded, but she  _ knows _ them. Oh, Force. She doesn’t think she’s ever been so relieved to see anyone.

Malak picks up the pace to a jog as soon as he sees her, and Revan pushes back her hood and fumbles with her mask, tugs it off and lets it fall to the ground, for the moment careless. Her hands are shaking and she doesn’t know what he’ll do or say when he reaches her - his hood blows back in the wind and he doesn’t fix it, and the wash of emotion in his blue eyes makes her want to  _ sob. _

Then he reaches her and he doesn’t even pause, just pulls her into his arms  _ tight, _ presses his face into her hair, and she realizes he’s trembling just as much as she is. He’s holding her so tight she can’t quite breathe but she doesn’t care, just wraps her own arms around him and drops her shields, pushes her mind forward to meet his, until they’re twisting and curling around each other and she can’t tell where she begins and he ends. Oh, Force, how could she ever have cut herself off from this?

“Revan,” he’s murmuring, low and hoarse, just her name, over and over again. She can feel his lips moving against the top of her head.

_ I’m so sorry, _ she tells him, pours all her emotions across the bond - the only thing she keeps back are her memories of the tomb, the test and the servant and her new bracers.  _ I never meant to scare you. _

_ I know. I know, but gods, Revan, you can’t do things like that. You can’t  _ say _ things like that. Just because I know you don’t mean it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, and Bastila doesn’t know you well enough yet to understand. _ Malak’s mental voice is just as hoarse as his physical one, and he tightens his arms a little around her.  _ You hurt us both, and not lightly. _

Shame wells up in her chest and wraps a tight stranglehold around her throat. She doesn’t know what to say - apologies only do so much, and she’s given him several already. She owes Bastila one too, but what can she do after? The thing she said to them… she knows how deeply she cut Malak, she can feel it. She imagines Bastila must be feeling something similar.  _ I know, _ she finally answers, shifts to press her cheek more against Malak’s shoulder. What else can she say?

For a little while, they just cling to each other; finally, though, Malak seems to compose himself and he takes a step back, and Revan breathes in, shaky but deep, and rubs at her eyes, looks over at Bastila, who’s been standing off to one side. “I’m sorry for my- comment last night,” she says, tries to keep her voice as steady and controlled as possible. “I was upset, and I wasn’t thinking clearly, but that’s no excuse. And I’m sorry for running off like an errant padawan,” and she paints a little twisted smile onto her face.

The comment eases the tension, and Bastila cracks a tiny smile of her own. “You’re forgiven,” she says, “although I’d greatly appreciate it if you never did anything like this again. I was worried about you, and keeping Malak from tearing off after you like a  _ second _ errant padawan was nearly more than I could handle.”

“Have you never been an errant padawan?” Malak asks, raising an eyebrow. “You sounded more like the crechemaster than anyone else last night.”

Bastila purses her lips, a haughty expression crossing her face, although it’s betrayed by the gleam of laughter in her eyes. “I was a  _ model _ Jedi, thank you very much. I never broke a single rule.”

Revan can’t suppress a smile. “You had bootleg holos of my fights tucked under your mattress,” she points out, and Bastila blushes.

“You can’t prove it,” she says.

“You literally  _ told me.” _

“Unless you happened to be recording that entire extremely private conversation we had directly after you tried to kill me, I don’t think that counts as proof.”

Malak makes a choked little noise. “You  _ what?” _

Revan grimaces. “I was sleeping,” she explains, “having a- I was dreaming about Iziz, and she woke me up by shaking me.”

“I  _ touched _ you! On the shoulder, barely enough to feel it.”

“You  _ shook me,” _ Revan says firmly. “And I thought you were a Mandalorian trying to kill me.”

Malak just shakes his head. There’s a fond smile on his face, though, and warmth across the bond, and Revan basks in that feeling.

_ “Anyway,” _ she says, before Bastila can retort again, “I have what we came for, and I’m starving and want something that isn’t ration packs, so can we get off this rock and head back to the  _ Vengeance? _ I’m fairly sure the Chancellor will need to speak to me.” She pulls her mask from the ground to her hand, absently. “We can just leave the stolen shuttle here, in case they can track it somehow. I’m not leading the Empire to my fleet.”

“You can cook,” Bastila says, starting for the ramp. “As payment for making me spend the last gods only know how long traipsing around this Force-forsaken planet looking for you.”

“Did you just swear?” Revan asks, amused, at the same time as Malak says,  _ “No, _ Revan is  _ not cooking.” _

Bastila blinks.

“I burn water,” Revan says with a shrug, in explanation. Bastila does not look like she understands. “Malak will cook, he’s actually decent at it.”

“I know, I discovered that this morning,” the younger Jedi admits, keying open her ship and stepping inside. Revan follows her, Malak reassuringly close behind. “I admit, I wasn’t expecting that.”

“He sews too,” Revan says. “Which, speaking of,” and she turns to face her partner.

There’s a  _ look _ on his face. “What did you do this time?” he sighs, resigned, and she twists to show him her upper arm. The gash has finally stopped bleeding, for the most part; it’s oozing faintly, but mostly clotted over, and if her robes weren’t black she knows the edges of the fabric around it would be stained. “The  _ hells!” _

“What now?” Bastila calls from the cockpit, as Revan gives Malak a glare. 

He’s not in the slightest bit deterred. “Revan hurt herself,” he says. “Get us into hyperspace, I’ll take care of it.” Without even asking permission, he takes her hand, tugs her after him as he marches to the ship’s small medbay, and promptly shoves Revan to sit down on the small bunk. “How did you manage that?”

She shrugs one shoulder. “I got on the bad side of a pair of terentateks,” she tells him. “Apparently, they’re what the Rakata left behind to guard this map.” Malak gets some rubbing alcohol and gauze and dabs at the gash, and she lets out a hiss between her teeth.  _ “Careful, _ that hurts.”

“Maybe you should’ve wrapped it when it happened, then,” he says, utterly unimpressed. “Or avoided fighting  _ two terentateks _ on your own.”

“What was I supposed to do?” she asks. “Leave the map where it was?”

“How about not run off in the middle of the night and take me with you instead?” He’s teasing, but there’s a hint of something across their bond and in his eyes, and she knows that despite the apologies and the forgiveness it’s going to be a while before he’s past that.

But when she thinks of the Sith servant, of the test she’d faced and the weapon she’d found and the discussions she’d had, when she thinks of  _ Malak _ being present for all of that… something in her chest tightens uncomfortably. As much as she hates being on her own, Naga Sadow’s tomb is somewhere she had to go alone, and even though she wants nothing more than to take him with her when she goes back to study it again later, she knows in her bones she  _ can’t. _

She gives him a playful smile. “It wouldn’t have been enough of a challenge if you were there,” she tells him, and he sighs, steps closer and leans his forehead against hers. The warm, steady contact fills her with a feeling of coming home.

“What am I going to do with you?” he murmurs, bringing his free hand up to trace her uninjured cheek. “You’re insufferable sometimes.”

“You love me,” she tells him, and it comes out far softer than she meant it to.

His mouth crooks up in a half-smile. “I do.”

It’s not the first time they’ve had a similar exchange - Revan has known since she was eleven that she loves him; he’s her best friend, of course she does. She’s always loved him. But after the kiss, after everything, it feels  _ different, _ somehow, saying the words. Not in a bad way, necessarily, but- She’s still not quite sure what she thinks. Still, she knows that if she could spend the rest of her life like this, the soft banter between the three of them and Malak so close, she would in a heartbeat. She’d damn the galaxy in an instant for this kind of peace.

“My arm is bleeding again,” she tells him, instead of trying to put any of that into words. She pushes as much warmth at him as she can, though, and his smile grows, and he leans in to brush a soft kiss across her lips before pulling back. “Sap.”

“Guilty as charged,” he says, returning to cleaning her arm. “At least I admit it, unlike you.”

“I’m not a  _ sap,” _ Revan huffs, “I’m just- We’ve been friends for most of our lives, I’m allowed to like you.”

“Are you? That’s news to me.” He’s smiling too-fondly at her and it makes something flutter in her chest.

“I could still change my mind,” she threatens, although she’s smiling, so it hardly has the planned effect.

“Sure you could.” He swipes the gauze over her arm one last time and throws it away, bringing kolto and bandages over and setting them down next to her. “You won’t, though.”

Revan mock-scowls, crosses her arms - which gets her a  _ look _ when she pulls her arm out of Malak’s grasp - and nudges his shin with her toe. “I’ve changed my mind,” she announces. “I agree with every single thing Vrook said about you.”

“He said I was the responsible one and  _ you _ were a terror,” Malak says, far too amused for her liking. 

_ “That, _ my dear Malak, is not the point,” she says. “He still yelled at you as often as he yelled at me.”

“For the exact same things you were in trouble for. Agreeing with him is more than a little self-sabotaging, isn’t it?”

“Not at all,” she says, gives him an impish grin. “I didn’t say I agreed with what he said about  _ me, _ after all.”

Malak sighs longsufferingly, making a face like she’s just told him he has to sit through a Senate meeting (she’s done that to him once, because if  _ she _ had to waste an entire day watching the Senate via holo just to present a report the Chancellor deemed important enough for everyone to hear from her, so did he). “You’ve spent too much time around the politicians, I think they’ve contaminated you.”

“If they’ve contaminated me, you’re infected by proxy,” she says.

“Nope, I’m just immune,” he says, too cheerful. “I think you’ll have to be quarantined away from everyone else for a few days, to make sure the political infection doesn’t spread. I think I’m the only immune one, so of course, I’ll have to check in regularly to make sure you’re alright.”

“I thought you said you were treating Revan’s injury,” Bastila’s voice says from the door, and Revan startles and nearly falls into Malak’s chest. “If you wanted space alone to flirt, you should’ve just told me so.”

“How long have you been standing there?” Malak asks, looking suspiciously flustered, and the younger Jedi’s eyes gleam with amusement.

“Long enough.”

Revan lifts her arm, helpfully. “He  _ is _ treating my injury,” she says. “And we aren’t flirting, I don’t think I know  _ how.” _

Bastila raises an eyebrow, stepping further into the medbay, until she’s within touching distance - Malak shifts a little to one side to make room, and Revan abruptly feels rather ganged up on. “Oh, I’m  _ Revan, _ I don’t know how to flirt, I’ll just take your hand-” and the younger Jedi does so, taking one of Revan’s hands in her own, “and touch your face-” and Bastila’s other hand comes up to skim Revan’s cheek, “and stare into your eyes like I’ve forgotten the rest of the world exists. But don’t worry, I’m not flirting.”

Revan’s face feels hot enough she finds herself wondering if burns can spread after the fact.

Malak is choking back laughter. “So  _ that’s _ what happened,” he says. “She wouldn’t tell me the details, just that she almost kissed you-” Revan sends a  _ sharp _ mental nudge at that, blushing even deeper, “and that she was freaking out about it.”

Revan splutters, looking between the two Jedi - Malak is just grinning at her, utterly unrepentant, and there’s a glint of laughter in Bastila’s eyes, and they’re both insufferably  _ smug. _ She’ll have to change that. “And I suppose you weren’t flirting either,” she tells Bastila, before slipping into an imitation of the girl’s Coruscanti accent. “Take off your mask, Revan. Be sure you remember my offer of support, Revan. I’ve been  _ worried _ about you, Revan.” She leans forward a little, dislodging Bastila’s hand from her cheek (regretfully), narrows her eyes. “In fact, I’m fairly certain  _ you’re _ the one who started it in the first place.”

Bastila’s cheeks are pink, but she’s determinedly holding her ground. “Maybe I was,” she says. “Can you blame me?”

“I can’t,” Malak says, and Revan swats his chest.

_ Your opinion doesn’t count, you’re biased, _ she tells him. “Is that the  _ real _ reason you had bootleg holos of me?” she asks, raising an eyebrow and trying to tame the flush she’s aware is still on her cheeks.

“I- Of course not!” Bastila says hotly, but the way she glances to one side and her face goes bright red says otherwise. “I was just- You were-  _ Everyone _ was interested in you, you defied the Council and you won so many victories for the Republic. I was hardly going to be the exception to that.”

Revan smiles to herself. “Good to know,” she says, and she feels a warm wash of amusement and curiosity from Malak.

“I know that look,” he says. “What are you planning?”

“I never plan anything,” she says, and he scoffs.

“And yet you’re always reminding me you’re a master tactician.”

Revan rolls her eyes, leans back against the wall behind the bunk. “You jumped us to hyperspace, right?” she asks Bastila, a deliberate subject change, but one that the younger Jedi seems thankful for.

“Of course,” she says. “We’re bound for the  _ Vengeance.” _

“Good. Malak, would you go start some food?” she asks, and silently hushes the beginning of his denial. “I’m sure Bastila would be more than willing to help me with my arm.”

It takes a moment, then Malak grins. “Right,” he says. “Sure, Revan.”

As soon as the medbay door hisses shut behind him, Revan shifts her attention back to Bastila and smiles, perhaps a little too smugly. “So tell me more about these holos…”

~

When Revan returns to the  _ Vengeance, _ her new robes cleaned and the tears mended, bracers gleaming softly in the lights and her mask newly-polished, everyone she passes  _ stops _ to stare at her. She supposes she looks far more different than they remember - gone are the bastardized Jedi robes she’d worn, the lighter colors, tans and browns and white. In their place, she’s dressed in black and red, actual heavy robes instead of anything lightweight, a long cape instead of a cloak, hood tight around her mask. Malak had told her she should change back, but she  _ likes _ these robes, the weight of them and the way they make her feel imposing. They might  _ look _ a little Sith-like, but she’s a Jedi, it doesn’t matter what she wears.

Her troops whisper to each other as she passes, flanked by Malak and Bastila, and she can hear snatches of their conversation - they’re relieved to have her back with them, they’re nervous about this new enemy, they’re eager to protect their homes. And many of them are curious about her new outfit, and she’s sure rumors will be flying all over the fleet by the end of the day. But every single one of them stands a little straighter to see their hero, their legend, their savior, their  _ symbol _ back among them.

It’s almost gratifying, and she brushes against their emotions in the Force, lets them buoy her as she makes her way to the bridge, to meet her officers and see what reports they have for her.

Every single one of her officers snaps to full attention the moment she steps onto the bridge, salutes sharp and crisp and regulation-perfect. Revan stops, looking around her, sees the respect in their eyes, the genuineness of it echoing into the Force, and she’s struck with an emotion she can’t quite name. They don’t salute her because they have to, they salute her because they  _ care _ about her, as much as she knows she annoys them sometimes. As much as she frustrates them, as much as she sacrifices, they trust her to protect them, to protect their families, to protect their Republic. They trust her to  _ win. _

She won’t let them down.

“Supreme Commander,” fleet Admiral Jenn says, stepping forward. “It’s good to have you back aboard, sir.”

Revan smiles, though the mask hides it. “Admiral,” she greets. “I’m glad to be back - all the sneaking around was making me lose my edge.”

A couple of the officers crack smiles, and Revan steps up to the holotable, tucking her arms behind her back. “We wouldn’t want that,” Jenn says, something that could be amusement in her voice, and then she gestures to the holotable. “I took the liberty of informing the Chancellor of your arrival; he’s waiting for you. If you’d like, I can transfer the call to one of the briefing rooms.”

Revan considers for a moment. “No, I’ll take this publicly,” she says. “I need my senior officers to be aware of the situation, and I’d rather not explain it more than once if possible.”

Jenn nods, presses a few buttons, and a holo of Chancellor Cressa springs to life. Revan moves over, her two Jedi following her - Malak a solid source of strength at her right shoulder as he always is, Bastila a warm presence at her back - and pushes her shoulders back, drawing on the strength they give her.  _ “Supreme Commander Revan, General Malak, Commander Shan,”  _ Cressa says, and Revan doesn’t let herself glance at Bastila but she doesn’t bother to stifle the  _ surprise. _ She hadn’t expected Bastila to take a military rank.  _ “Back from Korriban, I see.” _

“We are,” Revan says, inclines her head respectfully. “I see you received my reports.”

_ “I did. I’ve gone over them in detail, and presented them to the Senate - though I would’ve preferred for you to make your case yourself - and while you’ve been out of contact the past three days, we’ve come to a conclusion.” _ Revan waits, still, but tense - this is it, this is the moment that decides everything. That decides if the Republic will aid her in her fight against Vitiate or be just another threat she needs to face.  _ “I’ll need to know your plans, of course; you mentioned a superweapon, and I’d like more details on that and how you’re planning to use it. But the Senate has voted: we gave you control of our armed forces for a reason. We will declare war against this Sith Empire and rid the galaxy of their evil.” _

For a moment, Revan can’t breathe. The rush of relief that sweeps through her leaves her muscles threatening to give out on her, and she locks her knees, lets a wild grin cross her face behind her mask. “I won’t let you down, Chancellor,” she promises. Malak pushes an eager relief and happiness at her through their bond and it’s all she can do to stop herself from hugging  _ both _ her Jedi.

_ “You haven’t yet, Revan. That’s why I’m trusting you with this. All I ask is that you bring home as many good people as you can, and that you bring home victory.” _

“I will,” she says, her voice low. It’s a promise. “The superweapon I spoke of - I don’t know much about it yet, honestly, Chancellor, but it’s a relic of the ancient Infinite Empire, an extremely advanced civilization that ruled the galaxy before the Jedi Order was even founded. It’s called the Star Forge, and from everything I’ve read, it’s how this ancient empire kept control over the galaxy. I  _ know _ it will help us against the Sith Empire.”

Cressa frowns thoughtfully.  _ “It’s dangerous to hang so many of our hopes on one weapon when we aren’t certain of what it does,” _ he says.  _ “Do you have any alternate plans?” _

Revan lets a hint of a smile into her voice. “The Senate is your sphere, Chancellor; the battlefield is mine. Trust me to know what I’m doing.”

_ “I do, but I appreciate being kept informed of what you’re doing in my name,”  _ he responds, and she can’t quite argue that.

“I understand. I’ll write up a report for you with some of my intended strategies and some of my notes and forward it to you once it’s done. Thank you for your faith in me.”  _ Kirff, _ she’ll have to come up with something now. She  _ does _ have some notes on different strategies they could use for a full-scale invasion of Dromund Kaas, but that’s only one world in the Empire, and she doesn’t know enough about their capabilities yet. Really, she needs to find another Sith-controlled world and take it first.

_ “Of course. I’ll await your report.” _ Cressa bows his head at her, graciously.  _ “I’ll leave you to your command, Revan. Tol Cressa out.” _

His holo flickers away and Revan turns to face the rest of the bridge, sees her crew looking at her. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll have coordinates for you,” she tells the navigators. “Everyone else, be prepared for a long trip through hyperspace.” She quiets, looks over at Jenn. “How long has your shift been, Admiral?”

“Long enough,” Jenn says wryly. “With your permission, I’ll give you the bridge.”

“Permission granted. Get some rest.” Revan crosses over to an unused terminal, entering the datastick, sensing more than hearing Malak take control of the bridge in his easy way as Jenn salutes and heads for the turbolifts. The data from the star maps is encrypted, but it’s the same encryption from the Dantooine ruins, and one of the caretaker droids had had a key that she’d downloaded. She runs the decryption key over the coordinates and combines the data together, and then all there is to do is wait for it to finish.

_ Send Bastila for an off-shift, if she wants it, _ Revan tells Malak, feels his acknowledgement. The younger Jedi isn’t used to the long hours of mundanities she and Malak have to pull in between battles, and while it’s unlikely she’d ever admit it, Revan suspects Bastila will appreciate the chance to rest. They won’t have too many chances for rest once the war begins in earnest.

And it will begin, and soon; the moment Vitiate realizes she’s making her move, she knows he will too. He can’t afford to simply fight a defensive war when he’s unprepared; no, his best chance will be to strike lightning-quick and  _ powerful, _ to take important targets and quickly boost his strength and gain a foothold in the Republic to prevent her from directly attacking his capital planet.

If Revan weren’t such a brilliant tactician, he might be able to do it. But she’s ready for whatever move he might make, and she will  _ not _ let him take the Republic. Not one single world will fall. She swears it.

The decryption program finishes running and Revan copies the hyperspace coordinates onto another datastick, tucking hers back in her pocket and taking the new one into her hand. She crosses over to the navigators, hands them the datastick. “Your coordinates,” she says, and waits for an acknowledgement before she turns away. She crosses the bridge and steps up beside Malak. “Are you ready?” she asks him quietly.

Their search for the Star Forge has spanned at least a year. She’d never been  _ entirely _ certain she’d go after it in truth, but the allure of knowing the location of the Rakatans’ masterpiece had been irresistible - she can only imagine what secrets it could hold - and for a time she’d thought to use it against the Mandalorians. She hadn’t needed it, in the end; she’d just needed her own weapon and a trap and the strength of will to sacrifice her own for victory. But she  _ knows _ none of that will be enough against Vitiate.

And so here she is to finish what she started so many months ago, and finally make her way to the Star Forge.

Standing here, on the bridge of her flagship, an army at her beck and call, Jedi lightsabers on her hips and Sith lightsabers adorning her wrists, it feels a little inevitable.

“I think so,” Malak answers softly, and he nudges her arm with his knuckles, lightly. “Are you?”

Revan looks straight ahead out the viewscreen as the stars streak into white lines, the  _ Vengeance _ lurches, and the comforting blackness of space is replaced by the soft blue-white whorls of hyperspace.

“Yes,” she says. “I am.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy new year!!!!!!!!!! hopefully 2021 will be better than 2020.
> 
> this chapter was supposed to have two more scenes in it but it got super fucking long so instead have a single confrontation and a Nightmare. i recommend rereading Revan's Malachor flashback in chapter 5 to really get a good contrast.
> 
> leave a comment! <3
> 
> also, for your perusal, i used a star wars picrew to create rough images of Revan and Qatya! here are the links:
> 
> https://media.discordapp.net/attachments/293125727920979968/794011008342818836/565738_zRrDQfGS.png - Revan
> 
> https://media.discordapp.net/attachments/293125727920979968/794031947298897970/565738_1l7nNVi4.png - Qatya

When the comm comes in telling her the Council has convened and is awaiting her presence, Qatya has already been dressed and ready for an hour, pacing her room. She’d done her best to meditate, to run through the exercises she’d learned as a youngling in the creche, but there’s no Force to soothe her this time. She can’t help but feel like she’s walking into a den of rancors; last time she’d been in the Council chambers, she’d narrowly avoided having her Force loss being made permanent, and even though they need her now, need the Jedi she was (the Jedi the war made her), Qatya still finds herself afraid that when she stands before the Council once more they’ll strip the Force away from her forever instead of returning it to her grasp.

Would Atris agree with them, if they decided to change their minds?

Qatya can’t think about Atris, not when she’s about to be face to face with her - or rather, she can’t think about Atris as  _ Atris. _ She’ll be facing Master Kves when she steps into that circular room, not the padawan and knight she spent so much of her time with when they were young. Atris is too good of a Jedi to let her emotions bias her when something so important is on the line.

(Or so Qatya had always thought, but perhaps there’s more bitterness between the two of them than even Atris is willing to acknowledge. It’d explain her words the last time Qatya faced the Council.)

Qatya carries her returned lightsaber with her when she responds to the Council’s summons, and she’s dressed in the robes and armor Atris had given her; when she walks through the familiar hallways, she looks like she belongs. She looks like a Jedi again. And yet when she passes Jedi she’s known since she was a child, they look at her strangely, step out of her way, and very few offer her greetings. It’s as though they think she could contaminate them, with her loss of the Force, or maybe it’s the echo of Malachor they can sense. A part of her will always be trapped on that world as it shatters around her.

She doesn’t let herself dwell on it. She’d always had a sense that when she left Coruscant to join Revan’s war, she’d never quite be able to come back, not properly.

The Council chambers look exactly the same as she remembers them, and when she lets her eyes flit over the center stone, she can see a hole in it, surrounded by melted and reformed rock, where she’d stabbed her dualsaber the day she’d been exiled. Leaving her lightsaber behind and walking away had been the only thing she’d felt certain of, then; she’d known the Jedi wouldn’t -  _ couldn’t _ \- be her absolution.

She doesn’t regret her decision, and she hasn’t changed her mind - but if Revan truly is starting to fall, then maybe this can be her redemption for Malachor.

“Knight Petheir,” Vandar says, when she steps up next to the center stone; once again, it’s just him and Vrook and Atris, and she suspects the other three must be out on missions and unable to comm in. “Welcome back.”

“I’m not sure I’m really a knight again yet,” Qatya says, with a short, respectful bow. “I thought having the Force was an important prerequisite.” She smiles a little with the words, intending them to break the tension; she may not  _ like _ the Council, but she respects them, and even without the Force the weight of the air in this circular room is  _ stifling. _

No one smiles, or even relaxes, and Vrook narrows his eyes, looks down his nose at her. “I don’t agree with this course of action,” he says plainly. “That the Jedi have fallen so far as to recruit an exiled war criminal to hunt down one of our own… we never should have let Revan leave Coruscant.”

“With all due respect,” Qatya says, pressing her lips together and drawing on the steely composure she’d learned during the war, “if Revan hadn’t gone to war, the entire Outer Rim would be as ruined as Eres Three, as lifeless as Cathar, and the Republic we all swore an oath to protect would be dust. Coruscant might have survived - you would’ve had to fight back then - but nothing else would’ve.” She lifts her chin, presses back the anger threatening to spill over onto her face. “I didn’t come here for a lecture,  _ Master _ Vrook; you all know my opinions quite well.”

“Repentant as ever, I see,” Atris murmurs, and Qatya grits her teeth and doesn’t let herself react. When she’s here, in the Council chambers, she can’t care what her- what Atris thinks.

“You’re right,” Vandar says, “we didn’t summon you to rehash old arguments. When we last spoke, this Council was deliberately vague on the details; we didn’t want to risk the comm being intercepted. I’m certain you have questions - now is the time to ask them.”

“You mentioned an empire,” Qatya says. She’d noticed the detail before, but she’d been more concerned about Revan, about why the Council was comming her specifically, and they hadn’t exactly seemed open to questions at the time. 

Atris nods, taps a few buttons on the arm of her seat, and a holoprojector drops from the ceiling and displays an image of a city, full of massive skyscrapers and neat, wide streets, surrounded by mountains and jungle. The image changes to a shipyard filled with gleaming shuttles, smaller ships in construction - the larger ones have to be constructed primarily in orbit - and a strange insignia decorating them. There’s more shots: a fortress built into a mountain at the heart of the city, a blurry snapshot of some kind of stone temple, a stronghold surrounded by jungle, people walking the streets.

“Most of these were taken by Padawan Bastila Shan, though a few are from Revan herself, and we have more of the city’s lower levels taken by Malak,” the Echani Jedi says. “The planet itself is called Dromund Kaas, and it seems to be the heart of a reborn Sith Empire easily the size of the one the Republic faced in the Great Hyperspace War.”

Qatya is silent. She remembers Revan mentioning, once, a Dark presence she could sense behind the Mandalorians, something driving them to fight so ferociously, the same presence that drove Revan to take Alek and disappear on month-long leaves to hunt down galaxy maps from ancient ruins, leaving Qatya in charge of the entire fleet with the fleet admirals’ help. The Council had mentioned a powerful Sith in their conversation, and she’d assumed that to be the presence they’d all sensed at times - but an entire empire of Sith? The Republic is worn down and battered enough as it is from years against the Mandalorians (three years of war, and thirteen years of small-scale attacks before that); how can they hope to fight an entire empire?

“We received this recorded message a few days ago,” Atris continues when Qatya doesn’t speak, tapping another button to change the holo.

A projection of Revan springs into existence, but she looks far different from how Qatya remembers her; her usual armor has been strapped over a set of heavy red and black robes, there’s a hooded black cape on her shoulders, and her mask, while painted the same colors and in the same patterns, looks to be a modified Temple guardian mask instead of the Mandalorian one she’d found on Cathar. What happened to her old mask? The Revan Qatya remembers would never have switched it out; she could barely be convinced to remove it for the medics the few times she’d been injured. 

Something’s changed, something the Council doesn’t know about or doesn’t think is important, and Qatya can’t pinpoint what but it sends a shiver down her spine. Something’s  _ wrong. _

_ “This is Supreme Commander Revan of the Republic military, recording a detailed report on the scouting mission to the unknown Sith planet for Fleet Admirals Kavala Jenn and Saul Karath, and for Supreme Chancellor Tol Cressa.” _ Revan’s voice, at least, hasn’t changed, although this mask modulates it differently. Qatya remembers this overly-formal tone from all the reports she’d sat in on or contributed to after major battles.  _ “I took three Jedi and a squad of Republic soldiers under the command of Admiral Carth Onasi to the Sith world on which Malak and I were imprisoned,” _ and Qatya frowns, because the Council hadn’t mentioned anything about  _ imprisonment, “at the Chancellor’s request, to provide the Senate with irrefutable evidence that the Republic needed to return to war. Along with this report I’ve sent all the records I have of the planet’s main city and the other landmarks I discovered. I’ve also included a copy of all the information I downloaded from the Sith Citadel library on the Empire’s history, culture, and war capabilities, along with some floor plans. _

_ “The planet’s name is Dromund Kaas, and its capital city is Kaas City. The Sith appear to have a full army and navy and are currently constructing new ships both on-planet and in orbit, and from the information I stole their Empire seems to number around twenty worlds. I believe that with additional support we could conquer the outer planets without much difficulty, giving us a place to attack Dromund Kaas itself from. The biggest problem I can think of will be the Sith Emperor himself, but that’s for another report.” _ Revan’s nearly-bored formal tone flickers there, a hint of something shaky just barely noticeable, and Qatya frowns more. She’s missing something important.

“Pause the report,” she says, and Atris does so. “Send it to me and I’ll look it over later, on my own time. What  _ happened _ to her? Something’s changed.”

“We know very little,” Vandar admits, “and it is my hope, at least, that you will be able to find out more, and fill in the gaps of our knowledge. What we do know is this: after Revan accepted the Mandalorians’ surrender and declared her victory to the Senate, she and her fleet vanished into the Unknown Regions without so much as a warning. A little over six standard weeks after leaving, they returned to known space, and Fleet Admiral Jenn reported to us and to the Chancellor that Revan and Malak had gone missing while investigating a planet they believed to be the source of something that had influenced the Mandalorians into starting the war.” The old Jedi Master shakes his head, looking nearly sorrowful. “We cautioned the two of them about this at the beginning, but they refused to listen.”

_ And I’m glad they did, _ Qatya could say; the words are on the tip of her tongue.  _ If they hadn’t listened, I dread to think what would’ve happened to the galaxy. _ But she’s already said she doesn’t want to repeat years-old arguments, and she means it - nothing good will happen, that way. None of them will change their minds. So she simply nods an acknowledgement and shifts her position.

“Two months after their disappearance, Admiral Karath’s portion of the fleet registered a distress signal on all their frequencies, in the far Outer Rim, and he sent a ship to investigate. They found Revan and Malak, both badly injured, on a ship we’ve never seen the likes of.” Vandar sighs a little. “According to Revan, the Sith Emperor, Vitiate, took them prisoner and kept them for a month. Thanks to Padawan Shan, we now know that the Emperor is attempting to turn Revan to the Sith, and is more than likely succeeding. That’s why we need you, Knight Petheir.”

“If Revan does become Sith-” Qatya starts, but she’s cut off.

“Not if,  _ when,” _ Vrook says, nearly sharp. “She is proud and angry and far too attached, and she’s become used to making sacrifices any good person would consider unacceptable. She was halfway to becoming Sith before her capture, and I have no doubt the Emperor has only encouraged her worst tendencies.”

Qatya takes a step forward, twisting her hands together so tightly it burns. “I have spent  _ far _ more time with Revan than you ever have,” she bites out, and it’s all she can do to keep her breaths even. “She is a  _ good person. _ Perhaps a better person than you, Master Vrook, because even after all the atrocities she’s seen, she’s never forgotten her compassion.”

Atris raises her eyebrows, but there’s the tiniest of smiles on her lips, and the warmth of that gesture emboldens Qatya further. “I have seen that woman face down the kind of horrors you can only dream of in your worst nightmares without flinching. I’ve seen her hoarse from screaming in fear and still managing to sound bored when she sends in her reports. I’ve watched her stitch herself back together time after time after time so the soldiers under her command aren’t afraid. And you see her stumble over someone’s name in a report, someone who held her captive for a  _ month, _ someone who belongs to the worst evil in the galaxy, and your only thought is how corrupted she is? Don’t you even care about what she must’ve  _ suffered?” _

Qatya lost many things to the war. But she will never lose her compassion. And she will never lose the righteous anger that compassion sparks.

“You want to send me after her to kill her, or to take the Force from her as it was stripped from me. You want me to take away her identity as a Jedi, the very thing she must’ve clung to for sanity. None of you have ever been surrounded by Darkness so deep it drowns you on dry land. None of you have had to find something,  _ anything _ to anchor yourself so you don’t drift away, losing everything you are to the depths. Quite frankly, Master Vrook,” and the title is as much an insult as anything else, right now; Qatya will never be a Jedi Master after everything she’s done and she doesn’t care to be, “you don’t have half the strength Revan does, and you would  _ never _ have survived this war. Not as yourself. Not as anything recognizable.”

Her words ring out through the Council chambers, and in their wake is a heavy silence. For a moment, Qatya thinks they’ll cast her out again after this; she’s on uncertain ground with them anyway, and she’s sure Vrook has just been looking for an excuse to send her away without her Force connection restored. But she doesn’t regret her words. How can she?

“I am a master of this Council,” Vrook says, low and surprisingly icy, “and you will treat me with the respect the position is due. As of yet, you are still a civilian, and there is nothing stopping us from sending you back to Taris where we found you.”

Qatya smiles, just a little, sharp-edged and bloody. “Except for the fact that you don’t trust Revan not to turn on the Republic, and I’m the only one who can match her strength in the Force. You need me, Vrook, and you’ve already admitted it. Perhaps you should put aside your petty anger at me for my own choices; such emotions don’t befit a master of the Jedi High Council.”

Vrook half-raises from his seat. “You dare-”

_ “Master Vrook,” _ Atris snaps, “if you cannot comport yourself appropriately for your station, I’ll have to ask you to leave this chamber.”

Vrook goes stiff, lowers himself back into his chair, face gone flat, though his eyes flash with the force of his fury. “I am more than three times your age, Master Atris, I know my duty.” His voice is carefully neutral.

His duty, indeed. Qatya schools her face back into emotionlessness again, but there’s a small curl of satisfaction in her chest.

“Well,” Vandar says. “In the interest of maintaining a civil environment, perhaps we should return to the task at hand: granting  _ Knight _ Petheir her Force-sensitivity back.”

Qatya nods. “I would appreciate that,” she says. “I’m going to need some time to regain my strength.” It’s only been three months, but at the same time - it’s been three months since she touched the Force, since she used her lightsaber. If she’s going to be potentially fighting against Revan, she needs to be at her absolute best before she ever leaves the Temple.

“Of course,” Vandar says, nodding. “Knight, you may wish to kneel; this will be a jarring experience. Atris, Vrook, join me in meditation, please.” He closes his large eyes. “When you’re ready, Knight, we will begin.”

Jarring, she suspects, is going to be an understatement.

Qatya kneels down, though her knees protest the lack of padding on the hard floor, and closes her own eyes, settles her breathing and seeks out her center. “I’m ready,” she says.

She doesn’t have the Force, but she still has a lifetime of training her mind to shield itself, to recognize intruders; she can feel the presence of three other minds brushing the very edges of her limited awareness. One is distinctly cold - Vrook, she suspects - and another is a warm caress and intimately familiar, like a shaft of sunlight - Atris. The other woman has always felt like the warmth of the sun to Qatya, in degrees, blazing like a solar flare when she’s truly angry. She can sense them reaching out to touch the unbreakable wall between her and the Force, and for a moment nothing happens.

Then there’s a faint trickle of  _ life _ seeping past the wall into her mind. Qatya clings to it desperately like she’s dying of thirst - only the trickle turns into a stream, and then into a river, and it’s a deluge, a waterfall, a tsunami, it’s all  _ too much, _ a roaring wave of feelings and presences and memories and thoughts, and she can’t, she can’t take it, she’s drowning and helpless and she can’t breathe, she can barely find herself - and she grips so tightly to the walls of her mind but there’s so  _ much _ and she is lost.

Laughter and anger and lust and pain, trillions of voices, and Qatya is a mote in an ocean of sensation. Someone is crying out, softly, and there’s another voice, and some part of her is dimly aware of her cheek against a cold floor and muscles locked into frozen stone, but she can’t- she isn’t-

_ Qatya, come to me, _ someone says. A familiar voice, and she  _ reaches _ desperately, struggles against the torrent of emotions-thoughts-actions bombarding her senses, until that familiar warmth is wrapping around her.  _ Shield yourself, you remember how. _

She does. Shields, yes, those were some of the earliest lessons in the creche, how to build a durasteel-solid wall between her mind and the rest of the universe. She falls back on those lessons now, the presence helping her, and slowly, slowly, the feeling of drowning dissipates and she can breathe.

Qatya is on the floor, curled into the fetal position, arms clinging to her knees, and  _ she _ was the one making noise - and the presence so close to her is- is Atris.

And she can  _ feel _ again, really and truly, the Temple is alive around her, the  _ planet _ is, and Qatya can’t stop her face from breaking out into a wide grin as she pushes herself upright to a sitting position. The kyber crystals in her lightsaber sing to her and the song is a comfort beyond words, and she reaches out into the Force - the  _ Force _ \- and her lightsaber lifts from her belt and hovers over her outstretched hand.

Qatya  _ laughs. _

“Welcome back, Knight,” Vandar says, surprisingly warmly, and she smiles as she gets to her feet, catching her lightsaber and returning it to her belt.

“Thank you,” she says, and she means it. Her eyes drift to Atris; the other Jedi is looking at her with a faint concern in her eyes, but she’s smiling too, and her mental presence outside Qatya’s shields is warm. It feels, just a little, like maybe things don’t have to be different for them anymore.

Qatya is a Jedi, with or without the Force. Some things can never be taken away. She doesn’t want to go back to war; she wants to read through the Temple archives and watch stupid holodramas with Atris and help shattered planets rebuild. She wants to wander the levels of Coruscant and bet on the swoop races and remember how it feels to  _ live, _ not just survive. She’s had her fill of war and then more besides.

But she is a Jedi. She swore an oath to protect the Republic, in front of a full Council as her witnesses, and on the day she was knighted she swore another, more private oath: that she would never abandon her friends, that she would stand by people no matter what darkness they struggled through. She is a Jedi, and that means her duty to the galaxy must come first, though she is tired and worn and broken, though Malachor still screams through her head at night.

She is a Jedi, and she  _ will _ do her duty, to her Order, to the galaxy, and to her friends.

~

She’s dreaming. She’s just lucid enough to know that this isn’t  _ real, _ can’t be real, no matter how real it feels. Bao-dur is walking by her side, his little droid remote hovering near his head, both of them incredibly solemn. They’re underground, pacing through the hallways of the facility Revan had discovered and taken over to build the Mass Shadow Generator. Oh, Force, Qatya doesn’t want to watch this happen, not again.

But there’s nothing she can do to stop it.

“General,” the Zabrak says, and she looks over at him, sees the unease across his normally-placid face. “This weapon shouldn’t exist.”

“I know,” she says softly. She remembers this conversation, and there’s nothing she can do to change it, but oh, how she wishes- She should’ve listened.

“I made every adjustment I could, but the planet won’t withstand the pulse. The generator will turn its gravitational well against it, not just the rest of the Mandalorian fleet.”

“I know.”

“Everyone on the surface is going to die today.”

Qatya stops walking for a half-second, then moves forward again. “What do you want me to say, Bao-dur?” she asks the technician. “You know as well as I do that the war  _ must _ end here, today. We can’t keep going like this, sacrificing our own to win battles, and the longer Mandalore draws this out, the more we lose, the more likely he’ll win. You  _ know _ that.”

“I know,” he says. “But it doesn’t sit right with me, General, all the innocents caught up in this. We should’ve told them to evacuate.”

They should’ve. They  _ should’ve. _ But- “Revan and I spoke about that,” she tells him. “She thought that a mass evacuation would tip the Mandalorians off to our plans, or at least to the fact that there’s a trap here.”

“That’s what Revan believes,” Bao-dur agrees, “but I don’t follow Revan, General. I follow  _ you.” _

Qatya’s chest clenches and she takes a deep breath to steady herself, shakes her head a little and turns a corner. “I appreciate that, Bao-dur, and I don’t take it lightly - I value your loyalty. But mine is to Revan.”

Not to the Jedi, not to the Republic, but to Revan. How many of the Revanchists would say the same? How many of the  _ soldiers _ would? 

What could Revan do with that much loyalty?

Bao-dur is quiet for a long minute, until they step down a hallway and through a door into the command room she’d had set up for them. It controls the Mass Shadow Generator, and it has a sprawling holotable and a projection of the  _ Vengeance’s _ bridge viewscreen, so she can have the same bird’s-eye view of the battle as she would if she were in space with the others. The holotable shows Malachor itself and the fleets arrayed around it, and it has a holo line directly to the bridge - Admiral Jenn is currently the only one visible.

_ “General Petheir,” _ the fleet admiral says, saluting.  _ “The Mandalorian fleet just jumped into the system, and the Supreme Commander is still out of contact.” _

“I’ll reach her,” Qatya says, nodding. “I’m sure you and Malak can keep Mandalore busy until she gets back.”

_ “Of course. But given the nature of this battle, I’d rather have her with us.” _ Admiral Jenn is a good tactician, and a good leader, that’s why she has the position she does; Malak doesn’t have the same eye for strategy as Revan does, but he’s managed the fleet on his own before and done well. 

But neither of them are Revan. Revan is a  _ genius, _ even the most grizzled military veterans have agreed, and she’s the only reason they’re winning this war at all. Not everyone agrees with her tactics, with the sacrifices she made, and enough people are already calling this a pyrrhic victory even without knowing what they’re about to do, here on Malachor, that Qatya knows that the end of the war won’t bring any of them any peace. (She’s not sure Revan knows what peace is, anymore.) But even the worst dissenters agree that without Revan, the Mandalorian Triumph never would’ve stopped, and the war would already be over.

Qatya grabs her datapad, pulls up Revan’s personal comm, the one she’ll have on her and receiving even in the thickest fight, the one only a handful of people know the frequency to, and types out two words.  _ They’re here. _

Revan will know what it means.

And then she settles in, hands tucked behind her back, and watches as the battle to decide the war, for good or for ill, begins.

Qatya has taught herself to be utterly still in command. To press down all her emotions until after the fighting is over, at which point she can examine them all and understand them properly. She doesn’t wear a mask like Revan does, she doesn’t have the luxury of letting everything she feels spill across her face without having to worry what her officers will think, what those feelings will do to morale. Qatya knows better than most what a general’s emotions can do to their command; she forms connections wherever she goes, like synapses, and even before she was aware of that particular tendency of hers she’d seen how the people near her on a regular basis reacted to her emotions. If she’s afraid, or angry, or uncertain, those who look to her for guidance, for orders, will be too. And a frightened, insecure army will never win.

She may be nearly-alone here under the ground, but the entire bridge of the  _ Vengeance _ can see her holo, and here with her is Bao-dur, who follows  _ her _ above everyone else. She will not let any of them see her uncertainty. She will not let  _ herself _ see her uncertainty. For what’s to come, she can’t be anything other than utterly assured of her actions.

In minutes, the battle is at full force in front of her. This isn’t the entire Republic fleet - they’d kept some back to entice Mandalore to take the bait - and although she knows Revan will call in their reinforcements as soon as she knows the battle’s begun in earnest, this half of the fleet is battered and worn and no larger than Mandalore’s, and their greater numbers have historically been the only advantage the Republic has. People are  _ dying, _ Qatya can feel the deaths, and she knows instinctively that as awful as Dxun had been, this is going to be much, much worse.

_ Everyone is going to die, _ the Force whispers.

For the first time in a long time, she doesn’t let herself listen.

Revan arrives on the bridge maybe twenty minutes into the battle, robes askew, straightening her mask on her face. “You’re late,” Qatya tells her, and if she weren’t so entrenched in battle-stillness she might crack a smile.

At the same time, though, Revan really shouldn’t have left her fleet on the eve of such a huge battle. She may have both her second- and third-in-command with the fleet, as well as both her fleet admirals, but this isn’t some  _ skirmish, _ this is the fate of the galaxy. Revan may be playing dejarik with worlds as knights and fleets as rooks and armies as pawns, willing to sacrifice whatever she must to take Mandalore’s king, but she’s never gambled so hard on their victory before.

Reinforcements are on the way, Revan tells them, and Qatya glances between the projection of the battle and the holo of the fleets, allows herself a flicker of relief. They desperately need the rest of the fleet if they’re going to push the Mandalorians back into Malachor’s gravity well.

After three years of fighting, their command is a well-oiled machine, Qatya and Malak pointing out openings and the  _ Vengeance’s _ bridge crew taking advantage of them almost without needing direction. Revan gives orders and the Mandalorian ships die and Qatya remains impassive through it all.

Behind her, Bao-dur is adjusting sensors and preparing the Mass Shadow Generator for activation, the hums and beeps a faint background to the rush of command, and for a while things go- normally, at least. Their reinforcements arrive, finally, and with the additional numbers Qatya watches the viewscreen projection as the tide slowly turns in their favor, Mandalorian ships burning up around the  _ Vengeance _ like chaff. Everything is going to plan, it’s going to  _ work, _ and the opposing fleet is slowly being forced backwards, little by little. All they need now is time, and to hold out long enough to spring the trap. Revan is a master at that, at figuring out what they can afford to sacrifice to buy the time they need.

Only then Mandalore’s flagship hails the  _ Vengeance, _ and he challenges Revan to single combat. And Revan agrees.

Qatya isn’t surprised; from the moment the other leader had appeared on the holo, she’d known he’d make a challenge, and that Revan would accept it. Revan would say it’s because she can’t risk Mandalore escaping and rebuilding, because she needs to utterly crush their leadership in order to force a surrender, but that’s not the truth. The truth is, this is personal, and it’s about revenge, about - aptly - vengeance. Mandalore has spent too long escaping losing battles, leaving lesser generals to command while he slipped away from their grasp time and again, and Qatya knows Revan is  _ furious _ about that, whether she’ll admit it or not. In some ways, Revan is more akin to the predators of Dxun than she is any Jedi; she has been hunting Mandalore across the galaxy for over a year and she won’t give up now that he’s so close.

Soon enough, Admiral Jenn is the only one of the high-ranking command staff left on the bridge, her war-worn face pinched with concern and something grim and pained.  _ “I’m receiving a transmission from the surface, General,” _ she says, meeting Qatya’s eyes.  _ “Should I patch you through? There won’t be much else to watch.” _

Qatya nods. “That would be appreciated, Admiral,” she says, straightens her shoulders a little. Her muscles are starting to get sore from the position and she can feel an ever-present exhaustion dragging at her, the kind that no amount of sleep can erase, but she doesn’t let it show. She  _ can’t. _ Not while she’s in combat, not while people are looking at her, not while she still has the most difficult decision of her life to make. “What do you think of all this?” she finds herself asking, shifting her weight from side to side. She doesn’t know why she asks the question.

_ “About the challenge, your plan, or the battle?” _ Jenn asks, raising an eyebrow.

“All of it,” Qatya admits. She glances back, sees Bao-dur still invested in his work, lowers her voice and allows a hint of everything to show on her face. “I have- a bad feeling about this battle.”

The admiral presses her lips together for a moment, sighing.  _ “In my opinion,” _ she says,  _ “the Supreme Commander is being reckless and letting her emotions draw her into a fight she doesn’t need and might not win. I understand her motivation - believe me, I want the man dead as much as anyone else does - but single combat is a Mandalorian ritual, and Mandalore has more than likely spent his whole life training for this. I have nothing but the utmost respect for Revan, but against an enemy prepared for all the tricks she has at her disposal… I’m not certain she’ll be the victor.” _

It’s been a long time since anyone’s expressed disbelief in Revan’s ability to  _ win. _ Her critics don’t even try to deny that she wins nearly every battle she commands, that she’s leading the Republic to victory; the only complaints they have are with her methods. Qatya should be horrified by Jenn’s admission.

But instead, she can’t quite help agreeing. On her own, against Mandalore… unless Revan does something unexpected or unprecedented, she’s turning a certain victory into a very real chance at loss.

“We have to trust her, I suppose,” Qatya says with a sigh. “Trust that she knows what she’s doing, and that even if she falls here, we still have our trap. She’s ensured that we can win with or without her.”

Jenn closes her eyes.  _ “I wish you wouldn’t say things like that,” _ she admits.  _ “Forty-two years old and I’ve been a Republic officer for over a decade, and Revan is the first person I’ve really let myself believe in, in all that time. Over the last three years she’s only let me down once. I’ve never been one to be sentimental, but I don’t want to lose her to this war; we’ve lost enough good people already.” _

Qatya doesn’t know when Revan had ever let the admiral down (she has a suspicion, but it’s one thing to  _ suspect _ your Supreme Commander damning an entire planet to save one person, and quite another to actually bring that up), but she can agree with the sentiment easily enough. “Revan is a good friend,” she says. “I don’t have so many friends that I wouldn’t miss her if we lost her, and I don’t think Malak would take it well. I wish she would’ve  _ thought _ of that before she ran off.”

Jenn chuckles.  _ “We both know that for all her skills as a tactician, she’s not one to waste much time thinking her actions through in the heat of the moment.” _ She pauses for a moment, then her face shifts into a professional, blank expression once more.  _ “They’ve arrived at the meeting point on Malachor. I’ll patch you into the broadcast.” _

“Thank you,” Qatya says, and settles herself back into her comfortable stance as Bao-dur comes up beside her.

“What’s going on?” he asks mildly. His forehead is smudged with grease.

“Mandalore challenged Revan to ritual single combat,” Qatya explains as the holo of Jenn disappears and in its place is a rough circle of soldiers and warriors, Revan standing across from Mandalore in the center. “She accepted.”

“So I see.” Bao-dur frowns slightly. “She doesn’t trust the generator?”

Qatya shakes her head, tries to decide how to explain. “It’s a matter of pride,” she says finally. “This is personal for her. And it  _ does _ ensure he can’t escape.”

The Zabrak hums, but he doesn’t argue. “The generator is nearly ready,” is all he says. “It just needs some time to charge.”

“Good.” Qatya nods, then turns her attention to the duel.

Revan is an incredibly skilled fighter. In a proper duel with another Jedi, she’s unstoppable - Malak is the only one Qatya’s ever seen beat her, and half of that is just because he knows her so well she can’t surprise him. Against an army, she’s a storm of power in the Force, a monolith on which warriors break.

But she’s not fighting another Jedi, and she’s not fighting an army of foot soldiers. She’s fighting  _ Mandalore the Ultimate, _ the most dangerous person the galaxy’s seen in decades. She’s fighting a man who’s killed Jedi with his bare hands. She’s fighting-

And she’s losing.

Mandalore pins Revan once, and she gets out of it, but for all her skill she’s outclassed. It’s clear the leader has been studying her for months, if not years - Revan has been  _ the _ major force on the battlefield almost since she first set foot on the  _ Vengeance, _ and a smart, skilled warrior would recognize that. Mandalore is nothing if not a smart, skilled warrior.

Revan is fast. But even with the Force’s aid, it’s next to impossible to block blaster bolts at point-blank range; there’s just not enough time to get your sabers into position. The fact that she manages to deflect three in a row while still fending off Mandalore’s beskar sword is  _ amazing. _

But no one could keep that up, not even Revan. And she’s lucky that the shot she misses just buries itself into her shoulder, high up, missing her heart and her lungs.

Revan drops her lightsaber.

Qatya leans forward, one hand dropping to her own dualsaber hilt, as though she could do  _ anything _ from so far away. Revan is the Supreme Commander. Revan is her  _ friend. _ And she’s caught in a bladelock with Mandalore the Ultimate and losing ground, and no one can intervene.

Revan is going to  _ die, _ and there’s not a damn thing Qatya can do about it.

Only-

Something  _ changes. _

Qatya can’t pinpoint what it is, but abruptly, Revan’s entire body language changes from someone pinned down, someone  _ losing, _ to utterly in-control and confident. She grabs her single saber hilt in both hands and pushes Mandalore back like she’s not injured at all, gains space to call her white saber to her left hand, and it’s like a switch has flipped. She’s the storm Qatya remembers her being, attacking in a wave of blood and fury, but it feels-  _ wrong. _

The Force is humming with a feeling of danger, and Malachor is a dark place already but this… this is  _ Darkness. _ The kind of Darkness that sinks its claws into your heart and doesn’t let go.

Revan wins. (Revan always wins.) But at what cost?

There’s a speech, and then the broadcast cuts out, and all Qatya can do is settle back into her stance and watch the holo of the fleets as combat breaks out again.

The Mandalorians are  _ furious. _ Between the death of their ruler and Revan’s speech, they’re more roused, more angry, than Qatya’s ever seen them. This kind of fury is nearly impossible to fight back against, and despite their somewhat-superior numbers, despite Mandalore’s death - they will  _ lose _ if they don’t play this right.

They still have the Mass Shadow Generator, the trap they spent so long setting up. But at this point, the only way to drive the Mandalorian fleet close enough, the only way to keep them in the planet’s gravity field, is to- To do what Revan’s ordering now. To use their own fleet to box the Mandalorians in.

_ “Qatya,” _ Revan asks,  _ “are they in range?” _ Her voice is so- emotionless, other than the hard durasteel edge of determination. It’s like she hasn’t even realized.

She  _ has _ to see it, she has to know, it’s so obvious and Revan is brilliant. Qatya doesn’t trust her voice, just leans forward a little, presses a few buttons on the holotable until the weapon’s range is visible, a blue wave that covers the entire Mandalorian fleet, and covers over half of their own. Revan’s own  _ master _ is on one of the capital ships caught in the blast, and half the Revanchists have their commands there, doesn’t she  _ see it? _

Revan nods. That’s it. Just a nod.

She does see it, Qatya realizes, something sickening in her stomach. She just doesn’t  _ care. _

Jenn looks up from the projection and her eyes meet Qatya’s for a half second, and Qatya sees her own realization mirrored there.  _ “Supreme Commander, over half our fleet is going to be caught in the pulse if we activate the weapon now.” _ The admiral’s voice is steady as it always is, but her voice is tinged with concern, with something approaching horror.

For a moment, Revan doesn’t speak, just turns her back on her own holotable, pacing away, a lone hooded figure hidden in shadow.  _ “Sacrifices are necessary in war, Admiral,” _ she says. It’s the same mantra she’s always spouted whenever someone mentioned how much death, how much loss, they’ve suffered. It’s never been quite enough for Qatya.  _ “Qatya?” _

The way Revan says her name will haunt her for the rest of her life. Calm, determined, but nearly relaxed, as though she’s just asking for a sitrep.

But hadn’t she just told Bao-dur, earlier today, about how Revan has her loyalty? How can she stand against her Supreme Commander now?

Her throat is too choked to force words past the lump in it. In lieu of speaking, she simply turns to the Zabrak technician, sees him watching her intently. She meets his eyes, and for a moment time stretches out; and then she takes a deep, shaking breath and nods her head. Bao-dur turns away, something shadowed in his gaze, and presses a few buttons on his control console, and she can  _ feel _ the energy building beneath her feet, the hum of potential energy, peaking into a wave-

And then the wave breaks.

And Qatya is drowning.

She wakes up choking on a scream, the taste of ashes and blood in her mouth, the Force swirling around her like a whirlwind. She can feel the life all around her, and that helps a little, helps to ground her - she’s  _ here, _ in the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, not beneath the surface of Malachor V giving the order to destroy a world.

No matter how many times she has this nightmare, no matter how many times she relives these memories, she always loses herself in them, she always forgets they aren’t  _ real. _ Physically, she may not be on Malachor, but some part of her soul will never leave that command room.

It’s been three months. Not long, in the grand scheme of things, but long enough for Qatya to understand that these memories will be with her until the day she dies - she doomed a planet. That’s something she  _ should _ have to live with for the rest of her life. If it ever becomes something she can just forget, if it ever stops featuring in her dreams…

That’s when she’ll know she’s gone too far. But by then it’ll be too late.

Qatya rubs at her eyes and lays back down in her familiar bed, rolls onto her side to stare at the holo of her and Atris, from a happier time when she didn’t have to worry about wars, and she fixes the memory of warmth and laughter in her mind as she closes her eyes once more.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> drama tiiime! this chapter starts with the scene i was supposed to fit into last chapter, and then continues on to Revan on Lehon as she seeks the Star Forge. between the time skip for Revan and Qatya's sections moving much more slowly, they're now at around the same point in time, and i'm gonna do my best to keep the timelines even from now on because it was really annoying juggling that, tbh. next chapter will be more of Revan, guest-starring Malak and some good ol fashioned PANIC.
> 
> remember that PTSD tag? we're still milking it for all it's worth, folks.
> 
> leave a comment! <3

Qatya meets Atris in one of the lesser-used training rooms in the Temple the day after her meeting with the Council. She hasn’t spoken with the other Jedi since the meeting, except for a quiet greeting in the cafeteria when she passed Atris at a table and handed her the caf mug back, but she remembers the way Atris had reached out to her, when she was drowning in the Force, the  _ softness _ of her presence. Atris is not, by nature, a soft person, which means Qatya’s learned to treasure those moments more than anything else.

She’s done her best not to let herself think too much about what that moment could mean for their relationship - she has so many other things to worry about right now, between a Sith Empire and a new war and Revan - but it’s hard not to wonder. With the war and the loss of the Force and life on Taris, Qatya had managed to mostly forget the constant dull ache of longing, the way she’d missed Atris’ rare, but brilliant smiles and wry wit, the way every room had seemed just a little brighter when the young Echani was in it. She’d missed the way Atris could always make her laugh, and she’d missed how she could surprise a blush out of the usually-composed woman by showing up at her door with flowers or sweets or rare books.

_ (You have to stop this, _ Atris says, face bright red, looking around the hallway furtively before rushing Qatya into her room. The bouquet of wildflowers, tied with a ribbon the exact shade of Atris’ eyes, is rescued from Qatya’s hands and placed - nearly reverently - into a cut-crystal vase, and Atris spends a moment arranging the flowers.  _ People will talk if they catch you. _

_ Oh, relax, Atris, _ Qatya says cheerfully, dropping to sit down on the couch and grinning up at her girlfriend - not that she’d ever call Atris that to her face.  _ The Jedi don’t forbid romance, just attachment, and I think we’re both plenty capable of having a relationship that isn’t unhealthily attached. _ Atris comes over to her, and Qatya reaches up to flick her padawan braid lightly.  _ Come on, I have a surprise for you, but you can’t wear your robes. _

_ Is that why you’re wearing… that? _ Atris’ nose wrinkles and it’s, quite frankly, adorable.  _ You look horrible. _

Qatya pushes back to her feet.  _ Don’t you just know how to flatter a girl, _ she says, amused, leans into kiss the furrow in Atris’ forehead.  _ Go get dressed, I promise you’ll love it.) _

Atris has offered to help Qatya train herself back into fighting shape; while it’s only been a couple months and she’s kept up practice with her purchased weapons, that’s hardly the same as fighting with a lightsaber and the Force, and she’s going to be rusty. Her version of rusty might be better than quite a few people at their best, but against Revan it won’t be anywhere near enough.

Not that Qatya intends to fight her friend, but she can’t help being concerned about the possibility anyway. The fact that the Council intends to develop her Force-severing ability - something they’d repeatedly informed her she should never touch, something that they thought only a Master of the Council would have the wisdom to use appropriately (as though there’s ever an appropriate reason to cut someone off from the Force) - when at least one of them still thinks of her as a war criminal speaks to the seriousness of the situation. The fact that she’d been their only plan and they’d been willing to admit that to her tells her that no matter what they are or aren’t saying, the Jedi High Council is  _ afraid. _

They weren’t afraid when Revan went off to war, when Qatya left to follow her, a hundred Jedi or more behind them. Angry, yes, disapproving, even concerned - but never afraid, not properly.

Now they are. Whatever they’ve seen from Revan recently has  _ scared _ them in a way Qatya didn’t think possible. As much as she doesn’t want to, she needs to be prepared to face the worse - a truly  _ fallen _ Revan. (And if Revan’s fallen, how long until Malak does as well? Not long, she knows that much.)

Atris is waiting in the training room, her green lightsaber in her hands, moving through the steps of one of the Form VI katas, and for a moment Qatya stands at the door to watch her; the other Jedi has improved her saber skills quite a bit since the beginning of the war, though lightsaber combat was never Atris’ focus. 

“I know you’re there,” Atris calls, finishing a motion before turning to face the room’s door, and Qatya smiles and steps inside, letting the door close behind her. “You’re late.”

“I think you’re actually early,” Qatya says, pulling her dualsaber from her hip and spinning the well-worn hilt through her hands, leaving the blades off. “I hope you plan to give me a little while to get used to my weapon again, or this is going to be a quick spar.”

“It’s likely to be quick anyway,” Atris says with a sigh, returning her lightsaber to her belt. “You’ve always been much better than I am.”

“You’ve improved, though.” Qatya ignites both sides of her lightsaber and twirls it through the air, stepping absently into the first stance of her preferred form. The Force swirls warmly around her (and she knows she’ll never take that feeling for granted again), and the familiar feeling guides her as she twists her saber around. She’d gotten used to the balance of her purchased vibrostaff, and switching back to the weightlessness of a lightsaber blade is going to take time, but a few hours in a training room should be enough.

Atris doesn’t smile at the praise. “You expect me to believe you  _ haven’t? _ You went off to war, after all, and I highly doubt you weren’t fighting.”

And  _ there’s _ the familiar bitterness. Qatya doesn’t press, just continues with the slow kata, warming her muscles up. In truth, she does expect to win, if only because of the years of work she put into her saber combat. After she’d gone to Ilum as part of her padawan trials, returning with a pair of crystals in her pocket instead of one like most, she’d ignored everything the masters had told her, instead gathering enough materials to build a double-bladed lightsaber. She’d never practiced with one before - younglings aren’t allowed the more unorthodox weapons, for safety - but the weapon had felt  _ right _ in her hands from the beginning, and she’d spent months only using one blade and practicing religiously with a double-bladed training saber until her master deemed her worthy. She’s hardly a  _ master _ at the dualsaber, but she’s better than most of the current practitioners in the Temple, or was the last time she checked. It’s been a while.

Atris is right, of course, though - she spent three years at war, and though as the war went on she spent more and more of her time commanding space battles while Revan handled the ground forces (Revan has always preferred to lead from the front), she’d still led more than a few fronts herself, lightsaber blazing as a beacon to the troops following her. She doesn’t just have  _ skill, _ she has a kind of battle awareness and hyper-quick reflexes, she has an  _ instinct _ now that’s saved her a thousand times from blaster bolts fired by enemies she didn’t even know existed.

The room is silent save for the hum of Qatya’s saber blades as she works her way through several katas, and once she’s satisfied she drops her saber to her side, pushes back a strand of hair that’s escaped from her braided bun, and turns to Atris. “Ready?” she asks.

The Echani Jedi ignites her green lightsaber and steps into an opening stance, nodding grimly. “Let’s see how many new ways you’ve discovered to beat me,” she says, and Qatya would laugh if it weren’t for the bitterness suffusing the Force.

That’s something they’ll need to talk about.

But not right now. Now, Atris steps forward with a series of light, testing blows, and Qatya twirls her dualsaber to block them. The hissing sound as the blades connect is familiar, puts her in mind of years of sparring with instructors and her master and other Jedi, with the training rooms on the  _ Vengeance _ where she’d faced soldiers and Jedi and even Revan herself, and she’s almost able to smile as she starts to relax into the familiar motions. She’s missed this.

She brings her dualsaber up across her body to block a high strike from Atris, and the other Jedi twists with the motion and sweeps low, and it’s an easy flick of the wrists to counter with the other blade and push Atris back. “Nicely done,” she comments, and something  _ shifts. _

_ Nicely done, Jedi, _ the Mandalorian says, and this time there’s no trace of mocking in her tone, and-

Qatya staggers back, lashing out with her lightsaber to give her space, heart racing in her chest, choking on her own breath. Oh Force, that was- She’s in the training room, in the Temple, she can feel its soothing presence around her, and Atris is half-frozen and wide-eyed across from her.

Not real. It’s not real.

“Qatya?” Atris asks, uncertain. “What was that? Are you alright?”

“Nothing,” Qatya says, shakes her head and tightens her grip on her saber, stepping back into stance. “It doesn’t matter.” It  _ can’t _ matter if she’s going to go back to war.

She doesn’t give Atris a chance to respond, just launches into another attack, and every time their lightsabers clash she can hear blasterfire and she can’t stop looking over her shoulder for an ambush that isn’t coming, because she’s  _ on Coruscant, _ and if this were a real fight she’d be dead a hundred times over. Atris keeps hesitating between strikes, keeps falling back into defense instead of taking the many openings Qatya  _ knows _ she’s leaving, and how is she supposed to go back to war, how is she supposed to go off to possibly fight  _ Revan, _ if she can’t even handle a spar in the Jedi Temple?

“Stop  _ hesitating,” _ she says, just short of a growl, sweeping her saber at Atris’ legs. The other Jedi blocks and steps out of range instead of countering. “A padawan could take some of these gaps in my defense.”

“I don’t think-” Atris starts, but Qatya cuts her off.

“Just  _ do it!” _ she snaps, and flinches at a motion in the corner of her eye (it’s just the curtains on the wall shifting in the wind from the air circulation system, but in her peripheral vision it turns into a handful of Mandalorians ready to blast her to bits and every instinct in her screams to defend herself). She pivots them so Atris’ back is to the curtains and that helps a little, and the next few exchanges almost seem natural as she falls back into a rhythm.

She’s  _ fine. _ She never had any problems with fighting during the war, why does she feel like she can’t breathe at every little motion now? It’s only been three months, that’s not long enough to forget how to fight, how to wrap herself in the icy stillness that let her stand steady on the bridge of the  _ Vengeance _ for hours, only moving to give orders. And yet here she is, startling at every noise, unable to keep Atris separate from Mandalorians long-dead at her hand.  _ No, _ she won’t do this - she won’t let a war she  _ ended _ haunt her so badly she can’t lift her lightsaber. She won’t let the Mandalorians she defeated keep her from her duty as a Jedi, her duty to Revan.

She closes her eyes, and painted onto the back of her eyelids is a constant reel of bloody images, Republic soldiers and Mandalorian warriors alike, and she can see the jungles of Dxun, can taste the faintly metallic tang of the Demon Moon’s fog on her tongue, and there are Mandalorians crashing out of the jungle from defensive fortifications they’ve had a decade to build, and she stands in the eye of the storm, a swirl of death around her as she coordinates attacks from a hundred fronts at once, as she throws every single soldier at her command against the Mandalorians’ walls in the hopes that they’ll break-

“Qatya, I really don’t think this is going to help,” Atris says. “I don’t know what’s wrong, but you don’t need to force yourself through it - you have  _ time _ to relearn all this.”

Atris always does have the tendency to think they have more time than they do.

Qatya sinks into the Force and wraps it around her, draws on its solid steadiness, on the way it promises her she’s alone in this room save for Atris across from her, and she etches that steadiness and that reassurance into her bones and snaps her eyes open. She doesn’t answer Atris, just strikes out with her dualsaber, and strikes  _ hard, _ and then they’re fighting in earnest like she hasn’t been able to sustain. The Force whispers to her where Atris’ strikes will fall next and she blinds her eyes to everything except the humming green saber, closes her ears to everything except her own breathing and her heartbeat and the sound of their saber blades crashing together.  _ Trust in the Force _ is one of the oldest lessons she can still remember, and she clings to that memory now, letting the Force be her senses, carrying her through the familiar motions. 

Atris’ fighting style hasn’t changed. Improved, yes, but not  _ changed; _ Qatya knows the other Jedi’s weaknesses better than she knows her own. With the Force giving her strength and clarity she’s finally able to settle into the familiar cool grip of battle-stillness, able to focus enough to push back the paranoia and the emotions and the memories, and her half-cloak flutters in her wake as she presses Atris back into a corner of the training room. Her steps are sure and certain and her lightsaber twists and twirls through her fingers like the kyber crystals have wills of their own, and Atris is struggling just to defend, and then the Echani’s back hits the wall.

For a moment, Qatya falters. Atris’ blade is moving too slowly, and her eyes reflect the silver of Qatya’s lightsaber, and how many times did she dream, during the war, of all the death and destruction, of fighting a beskar-plated figure and dealing the death blow only for the helmet to fall away, revealing a scene just like this? The Force promises her this is real, but for a moment the line between dream and reality is as blurred as the stars in the infinite heartbeat between realspace and hyperspace, and in the half-second’s hesitation Atris does-  _ something, _ Qatya can’t tell what, and suddenly  _ she’s _ the one with her back to the wall as a bright green lightsaber blade descends towards her.

She’s  _ trapped. _ Pinned down and in danger and  _ she is going to die if she doesn’t get free _ and panic overwhelms the steadiness of the Force around her, sends electricity through her veins, and she’s reacting without thinking-

Her saber hilt slams into Atris’ forehead hard enough to daze and one blade slashes through the hilt of Atris’ lightsaber so close to her hand the other Jedi has to drop it or risk losing her fingers, and the other blade is stabbing towards her unprotected stomach-

“Qatya,  _ stop!” _ The Force  _ yanks _ her off-balance, sends her staggering into the wall, and the impact jarrs her enough she has to gasp in a breath, and  _ Atris, _ this is  _ Atris. _

Oh gods, oh  _ Force, _ she- Qatya drops her lightsaber, hears it clatter to the ground, and staggers back until she’s wedged in the corner, and her legs give out from under her and she’s sliding to the floor. She- She-

Qatya shoves the heels of her hands into her eyes  _ hard, _ until she sees stars, and tries not to hyperventilate.

She could’ve  _ killed Atris. _ This is why she was avoiding the dueling rings on Taris, why she was so careful not to get involved in any fights - she can’t trust herself anymore. How can she possibly fight anyone at all if she doesn’t know when she might snap, at a moment’s notice, and kill on instinct? If Atris hadn’t reacted quickly enough-

“What’s going  _ on _ with you?” Atris demands, her voice higher-pitched than normal, and there’s a mixture of anger, concern, and  _ fear _ in her words and in the Force. “You could’ve killed me!”

“I-” Her throat closes shut and she’s shaking so hard she can’t move. “I didn’t mean- It’s the war,” she finally manages. “I- see it everywhere, in everything. I don’t know how  _ not _ to fight for my life anymore.”

“And you didn’t think that’s something I should’ve known  _ before _ I agreed to spar with you? Qatya, I thought you were going to stab me. You  _ would’ve _ if I hadn’t stopped you. That’s not  _ okay!” _

She  _ knows that. _ A residual terror is crawling its way up her throat, tearing through her chest, and she needs to apologize, she wants to apologize, this was nearly her worst nightmare come true. But that’s not what happens.

“You  _ trapped me!” _ she shouts instead, the words echoing through the training room. “Don’t you understand what you  _ did? _ How else do you expect me to react when I’ve spent the last three years in a place where being trapped means death? When my death means that not only am I lost, but so are thousands of people under my command, however many fronts I’m running at once, and an entire planet? What the  _ kriff _ did you think I’d do when you pinned me in a corner and then brought your saber at my face? How do you think a Mandalorian would kill me? I’ll tell you - in the exact same way you just tried to!” Her chest is heaving and she feels ice cold.

“How  _ could _ I understand?” Atris snaps, her voice cracking across Qatya with the force of a beskar-gauntleted fist. “I never went to war! I stayed behind, like a good little Jedi, a good potential master, because I was too weak to make the choices I wanted to!”

Qatya  _ freezes. _ “What?” she whispers, and Atris’ eyes go wide and she takes a hurried step back.

“Forget I said anything,” the other Jedi says. “I should- go, I don’t think this is going to work.”

“Wait,” and Qatya gets to her feet even though her legs are still trembling. Atris  _ flinches _ and she feels like she’s going to throw up, but this- “You can’t mean that, Atris. You aren’t  _ weak.” _

“Of course I am,” Atris says. “Don’t you see? That’s why I’ve been so bitter, so angry, towards you. You made the choice I could not, and I resented you for it, for how easy you made it seem. I couldn’t follow you, after you spent so much time convincing me not to run away from my feelings, and because of it I lost you. I couldn’t bear the thought that I’d driven you away because of my own fear, so I blamed you instead.”

Qatya doesn’t even know what to  _ think. _ She almost expects laughter - this all feels like some kind of twisted joke - and yet Atris’ face is deadly serious, her eyes more open and more vulnerable than she’s been in years, and the Force is filled with her painful honesty. “You never lost me,” she says, and her voice is shaky. “Atris, I- I’m  _ glad _ you stayed behind. How could I be anything else? All of this- I just nearly killed you because I spent so much time in a warzone I can’t turn off the instincts that say everyone is a danger. I thought-” and for a moment it’s almost impossible to get the words out, but she has to, “-I thought you agreed with Vrook. That you considered me a war criminal, someone who broke the Jedi Code. I thought  _ I _ lost  _ you _ when I chose to follow Revan.”

“Just because I never told you my feelings doesn’t mean I never  _ felt _ them,” Atris says, something flashing across her face that Qatya can’t name. “Short of falling to the Dark Side entirely, nothing you could choose to do could possibly make those feelings go away.”

Qatya leans against the wall - if she doesn’t she’s afraid she’ll collapse again. “You were convinced I  _ had,” _ she manages, closing her eyes. “I remember what you said to me after Malachor, what little there was.  _ Only someone entirely lost to the Dark Side could give the orders you did. You’re no longer a Jedi, Qatya Petheir, and you haven’t been one since you left Coruscant in Revan’s shadow.” _ The words are burned indelibly into her mind, the last things Atris had spoken to her before every other word at her sentencing and exile had been  _ about _ her, directed to the rest of the Council. “You were the only one I needed to understand and you didn’t even  _ try.” _

Her chest hurts. This particular pain is as fresh as the day it happened - Qatya has been pushing it as far out of her mind as she possibly can since she heard the words, because after everything else, the loss of the Force and Malachor and exile, she couldn’t bear to think that her girlfriend - whatever Atris had always said about their relationship, they’d been together for  _ years _ \- truly thought she’d fallen. 

“I was such a  _ fool, _ Qatya,” Atris says, and her voice is  _ shaking. _ “I couldn’t see what was right in front of me, that you were -  _ are _ \- still yourself underneath all the changes. You came home when I never thought you would and looking at you, it was like someone had stolen your face. I couldn’t see past your pain and I’m so sorry for that.”

Qatya opens her eyes, because she- Atris is  _ apologizing _ and she has to see, to make sure this isn’t a dream. Atris’ face is open and honest and there’s something aching and incredibly real in her blue eyes. Even after years of an albeit complicated relationship, she’s never seen the other Jedi this willingly vulnerable before.

“I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” Atris continues after a moment, “much less your- care, but you should know the truth, and you deserve an apology.”

Qatya scrubs a hand over her face, tries not to notice how it’s trembling. She hardly knows what to say, but she can’t just stay silent, not after this admission. “I-” she starts, then stops, shakes her head a little. “Of course I forgive you, Atris. I won’t deny that you  _ hurt _ me, deeply, but- I’ve  _ missed _ you. And you aren’t the only one who’s said things they regret.”

There’s another pause, then Atris closes the distance between them, cautiously bringing a hand up to skim over Qatya’s face, over the hairline-thin scar across the bridge of her nose. “Seeing you like this kills me,” she murmurs, and Qatya closes her eyes and leans into the touch. “If I’d gone with you the first time - would you be in less pain now? If I hadn’t said those things to you…”

“I don’t know the answer to that,” Qatya says quietly. “I wish you hadn’t said them, but it’s too late to change that. As for going with me to war… more than likely, you’d be dead, or you’d be in the same place I am now - although I don’t think you would’ve given the orders I did. Either way, the war would’ve changed you.”

“And two years on the Jedi High Council hasn’t?” Atris is quiet as well, but there’s something in her voice that makes Qatya open her eyes to look at the other woman. She’s completely serious as she drops her hand to Qatya’s shoulder, and though Qatya misses the soft touch on her face almost immediately, there’s something grounding and comforting about the way Atris squeezes her shoulder, reminding her she’s still  _ here, _ in the present. “When you leave to track down Revan, I want to come with you.”

She has to be hearing things. “What?” she manages to ask, mouth going dry. “Atris…”

“You heard me. I’ve watched you walk away once before, and I saw what that  _ did _ to you; if there’s any chance I can help you at all, can keep this new war from making things worse, I’m going to take it.” Atris lifts her chin, defiance flashing in her eyes, like she’s expecting to be told no. “I care about you, and even after we fought, I still spent too many nights pacing my room  _ worrying _ about you, because I had no idea if you were even still alive. I’m not going through that again.”

“Better that than standing on the bridge of a starship and feeling thousands die, knowing it’s your orders that caused those deaths,” Qatya returns evenly, and pain flashes across Atris’ face before she leans forward and presses her forehead to Qatya’s shoulder.

“Maybe for you,” she says softly, voice muffled, “but not for me. I can’t sit back helplessly while you risk your life and your sanity time and again.”

Qatya sighs, brings one hand up to slip through Atris’ silver hair, the repetitive motion as soothing to her as it must be to the other woman. “I doubt the rest of the Council would approve,” she murmurs. “You know what Vrook thinks of the Revanchists.”

“I know. The way he spoke to you yesterday, and how he’s spoken to you before… he had no right to. And the others simply let him! As Jedi Masters, our personal emotions and biases should never come into the Council chamber, and while I’m guilty of struggling with that, certainly, I at least am willing to admit it.” She sighs into Qatya’s shoulder. “They may choose to remove me from the Council for this, but it’s a choice I need to make.”

And really, when put like that… how can she refuse? Qatya has no desire to fight in another war, and though the Force may be conspiring to force her into this one, why shouldn’t she take an opportunity to make it a little more bearable? She doesn’t want Atris to experience war, but if they’re truly going to be fighting Sith they’ll  _ need _ all the Jedi they can get, and-

Qatya remembers how it felt to nearly lose herself, time and again, in the oceans of death and destruction. Battles had been storms and she’d been at the center of them, and in her darkest moments she hadn’t been anything like herself, had hardly been human, as she stood back from the worst of the danger and ordered men to die. She doesn’t want to feel that way ever again, even though she knows Revan will ask it of her.

Atris could  _ help. _ Atris could keep away the nightmares and remind Qatya that there’s more to life than blood and battle. And after they’ve been separated for years, now that things are finally- less tense, between them, Qatya doesn’t want to walk away again.

“Okay,” she says softly. “Just- around Revan, I need you to be  _ careful, _ and I need you to let me do most of the talking. I don’t intend to let her use you as cannon fodder.”

Atris pulls back enough to look up, a flash of alarm in the Force. “Would she really?”

“Yes.” Qatya doesn’t hesitate - after all,  _ she _ used Jedi as cannon fodder herself, too many times. “But we aren’t fighting the Mandalorians, so her strategies will change.” Hopefully. The Republic can’t support another war as bloody as the last one.

“Well.” Atris straightens her shoulders a little, takes a deep breath. “I suppose we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. For now, why don’t we go get some caf - I have your favorite roast - and you can tell me a little about the past three years? Force knows we could use the conversation.”

Atris is right, and Qatya lets herself smile just a little. Somehow, despite everything, despite the utter  _ mess _ this training session turned out to be - they’re okay. They’re better than they were before. And she may be going off to war again, but this time, she’ll have Atris beside her.

Even the Darkness she felt on Malachor won’t be able to face the two of them together.

~

The  _ Vengeance _ comes out of hyperspace after a five-day trip across multiple hyperlanes, skirting around the Core Worlds to avoid getting too close to Coruscant - the coordinates the star maps had given are on the far opposite side of the Galactic Core from Korriban, and they’d had to refuel the fleet twice. Revan’s glad she’d had the presence of mind to leave Saul Karath, the  _ Leviathan _ \- the other fleet admiral’s command - and his half of the fleet out patrolling the Outer Rim and the border between the Republic and the newly-discovered Empire.

The data she’d taken from the Rakatan monuments names the system Lehon, and Revan has Jenn position the fleet in a defensive position just outside the system while she takes a shuttle with Malak and Bastila to investigate. Because the moment they come out of hyperspace, Revan sees what can only be the Star Forge - a massive grey station hovering over the system’s star, waves of bright golden energy constantly streaming into it from the sun below. There’s a  _ power _ emanating from it similar to that of the star maps, but so much more, like the difference between a hearth and a bonfire.

She still doesn’t know what it does, but the power it contains is undeniable, and she  _ knows, _ without a doubt, this is enough to face Vitiate.

Jenn argues, briefly, against Revan going to inspect the Star Forge with just two Jedi and no backup, but Revan refuses to be deterred - what could possibly happen that the three of them couldn’t face together? And she doesn’t want to risk so much of the fleet when they don’t know what defenses the Rakata might’ve left behind. Better for just the three of them and one shuttle to go, and then she can comm Jenn with better orders.

They take the same Defender-class ship Bastila had brought to Korriban, and Revan flies; the closer she gets to the Star Forge, the bigger it looks, and she’s struck with the realization of just how truly  _ huge _ it is. Modern technology could never build such a large structure, and certainly couldn’t replicate the way it seems to be siphoning energy from the star it hovers over, and Revan can’t even begin to understand how the station has such a presence in the Force. Inanimate objects aren’t supposed to have  _ Force-signatures. _

“What do you make of it?” she asks Malak, standing behind her in the cockpit - she can feel him considering the Star Forge.

“It’s big,” he says dryly, and she laughs, swings one hand behind her to try and smack him. He ducks out of the way easily. “I mean, what do you want me to say, Revan? I know you’ve noticed its Force presence, until we get closer there’s not much else we’ll be able to see.”

He has a point, and she sighs. “Alright, fine then,” she mutters, unwilling to  _ admit _ that he’s right, at least not to his face. “See if I ask your opinion again.” He’s amused, she can tell, and he opens his mouth to retort-

And then the ship  _ shudders. _

And the engines, comms, defenses,  _ life support _ \- every single system goes dead, lights flashing out, the navicomputer’s display disappearing. Revan flicks switches and presses buttons across the dashboard, to no avail - they’re still moving at speed across the third planet in the system, momentum carrying them forward - and then there’s a sound of something grinding within the ship and the steering yoke starts to drift towards the planet beneath them.

Oh,  _ shit. _

“What’s happening?” Bastila asks, stepping into the cockpit, and Revan just shakes her head, too focused on fighting the yoke. They don’t have  _ shields, _ any kind of atmospheric entry could tear up the ship, especially since she can’t brake or  _ anything. _

“The ship went dead,” Malak answers for her, already sliding into the copilot’s seat. “I’ll try to get emergency power up.”

“Please,” Revan mutters. “We have no shields and we’re caught in the planet’s gravity. Bastila, strap yourself in, I’ll do what I can but we’re going to crash.”

There’s hardly anything she can do but fight the yoke and keep the nose as level as she can; fire burns along the outside of the viewscreen and she can  _ feel _ the heat in her bones, but the ship holds through entry, and Malak manages to get the backup generators online enough that she can at least extend the landing gear and work the stabilizers. It’s enough that when the ship finally succumbs to the pull of gravity for good, she’s able to bring them to a rough landing on a stretch of beach surrounded by ocean. The ship is half-wrecked, but if she can figure out what knocked out all their systems, she can probably get it up and running again - there’s no shortage of other shipwrecks scattered around to scavenge from.

Whatever happened, it wasn’t a problem with the ship. There are no coincidences, after all, and even if there  _ were, _ there are too many broken ships here for that.

“We should explore,” Revan says, after she manages to get the ship’s ramp down and step outside onto the sand. There’s an ocean off to the left, and the beach stretches out in all directions, with some kind of tropical not-quite-jungle further inland, and she suspects if she took off her mask or her gloves the air would feel warm and wet. “There’s a lot of crashed ships around, I can repair the  _ Defender _ with scavenged parts.”

There’s something in the Force here, something heavy and humming, and she frowns behind her mask, reaching out. She can’t identify the source - there’s too much life in the area, and whatever the source is, it’s nearly overwhelming, making it hard to sense  _ anything _ \- but she can feel some kind of… cluster of Force-signatures nearby, both to the north and to the south. Some kind of settlements, maybe? If enough people and ships have crashed here over the years, it’s possible the survivors have banded together. Maybe they’ll have some answers.

“I’m not so certain splitting up is wise,” Bastila says carefully, looking around with a dubious expression, and Revan smiles.

“We can handle ourselves, and I highly doubt there’s anything all that dangerous here. Malak will go north, I’ll go south, and Bastila, you scout out the area around the ship, see what you can find. And  _ make sure _ no one steals the ship.”

With that, she starts down the beach, though she can hear Bastila make a frustrated noise and mutter something less than complimentary. But really, what does the younger Jedi think is going to happen? They’re all Jedi, and powerful ones, and Revan made sure to give Bastila the least dangerous task. 

“See if you can get a comm out to Jenn, let her know what happened and to keep the fleet back from the system,” she calls over her shoulder, as an afterthought, and then she tucks her hood more neatly around her mask and takes off into the pseudo-jungle, towards the collection of signatures she sensed. 

_ Be careful, _ Malak presses across their bond, and she sends back an impression like rolling eyes and a wash of fondness.

_ I’m always careful. _

_ That’s a blatant lie. _

_ Who’s the one who got himself captured in the Citadel, hmm? It certainly wasn’t me. _

_ And I’m certainly not the one who ran off in the middle of the night on an unknown world and spent over twelve hours in a tomb without telling anyone. _ Malak’s mental voice is wry and warm.  _ Is it so hard to say, “Yes, Malak, I’ll avoid any unnecessary fights”? _

Revan pretends to consider that for a moment as she winds between growing cliffs and large, leafy trees.  _ Yes, Malak, I’ll tell you before I get into any unnecessary fights. _

_ You’re insufferable. _

She chuckles.  _ Should I not tell you, then? Will it soothe your conscience if I pretend? _

_ No, Revan, _ he says with a heavy mental sigh.  _ That would do the opposite of making me feel better. _

_ You’re always so difficult to please. _ She can’t keep a wide grin from spreading across her face, though of course she’d never admit that to him. He probably knows anyway.  _ Go on, go scout. I know there’s something out here. _

_ I expect regular check-ins, _ he says pointedly, and this time her scoff is audible, enough to startle a brightly-colored bird out of a nearby tree. Whoops.

_ You’re not my mother or my master, Malak. I’ll be fine, and if somehow there’s trouble I can’t handle on my own, I’ll let you know and find somewhere to hide until it passes. I killed eight Sith on my own, you know, and that Darth, I’m not helpless. _

_ You shouldn’t be proud of that, _ he says, quiet and sober.  _ You were absolutely terrifying, and not in a good way. _

_ There’s a good way to be terrifying? _

_ This isn’t a joke! _ The sharpness of the projection is nearly a shock, and she makes sure to push her sincere apology at him.  _ I’m concerned about you, Revan. _

_ I’m not proud of it, _ she says.  _ I just meant that I can handle myself. _

_ I know you can. I’m not questioning you, I’m just being cautious. This planet is an unknown and I know you can feel that disturbance in the Force. _

Revan sighs, presses herself into a shadow against the hillside as she sees movement up ahead - it’s just an animal of some kind, but despite her bravado, she isn’t actually planning on taking risks, and that’s not just because she doesn’t want to deal with Malak’s lecture. Contrary to his opinion, she  _ does _ know how to be careful; she would never have won the Mandalorian Wars if she didn’t know when to use caution and when to be reckless.

_ I’ll be careful, _ she promises, and she feels Malak’s gratitude and relief at the words.  _ As long as you are too. _

_ Of course I will be. I’m not the one who attracts trouble everywhere I go. _

That’s  _ definitely _ up for debate, but Revan just shakes her head and smiles fondly and continues on her way. Between the rolling hills and the jungle flora and the stretches of beach, Lehon is really quite beautiful, and despite her caution, the further she goes without encountering any other sentients the more she starts to relax. There’s birdsong and animal cries and a gentle breeze ruffling her hood, and she’s almost tempted to pull it down and let her hair free for a little while. She can always pull it back up when she gets near other sentients, right?

She’s tugging her hood down before she can think of it, and the breeze feels  _ nice, _ reminds her a little of the wind on the Dantooine plains, though far more moist and warm. Her robes really are too heavy for this world, but she can manage just fine, and dropping her hood down is the most she’s willing to risk, on an unknown world. 

She walks for a couple of hours through the jungle, the cliffs pushing her away from the beach for a while, the wind blowing softly through her braids and loose hair, cooling the sweat on the back of her neck. From time to time, Malak’s mind brushes against hers, and she reassures him she’s fine, she hasn’t found anything, she’s being careful. It’d be nice, she has to admit to herself, to be able to reach out to Bastila like this too, but Force bonds are such a personal thing, and the one she has with Malak is far deeper than any training bond between master and padawan - it’s too much a sign of attachment. Revan doesn’t particularly care about attachment, anymore, but she knows Bastila does. And Bastila is still a padawan; she still has so much of her future ahead of her, as a Jedi. 

Revan suspects the only reason she hasn’t been thrown out of the Jedi yet herself is because of the news she brought back to Coruscant with her.

She’s broken the Jedi Code time and again - it was one of the first things she had to sacrifice to properly fight the Mandalorians. At first, breaking it had been difficult, a conscious choice she’d had to make because she had no other options, but now… breaking the Code she was raised with, the Code she swore to obey, is as easy as breathing. 

But she swore to protect the Republic as well. And she can’t do both at once, that much became clear around a year into the war. She had to make a choice - and she chose the Republic over her morals. Does that make her a bad person?

The Jedi Council would think so.  _ Vrook _ has thought her a bad person since he met her when she was six. And she knows she’s sacrificed thousands - millions - of lives in the name of victory, but if she hadn’t, then how many millions more would’ve died to the Mandalorians? The Council had never had an answer for what they thought the right choice was, if both going to war and abstaining were wrong. And if  _ they _ couldn’t answer that, then how was she supposed to? Arren Kae had always taught Revan to trust herself and her instincts, and to stand for her own beliefs when she didn’t know what else to do. (Frequently, Revan thinks her old master was wiser than the entirety of the Jedi High Council combined.)

The Council may have used Qatya as their scapegoat for Malachor, but she knows that when she returns to them after Vitiate is dead and his Empire routed (if she returns), they will lay the death of an entire planet at her feet. They will ask her to account for two thirds of her own army, dead at her hand. They will ask her about her own master, who she loved, and who loved her as much as Arren Kae loved anyone, and they will demand to know how Revan could kill her.

How can Revan explain that it wasn’t supposed to happen that way?

She’d never intended for so much of her own people to get caught in the pulse. If Mandalore the Ultimate hadn’t challenged her, they would’ve been able to push the Mandalorians back without having to use most of the Republic fleet to box them in. She’d expected  _ some _ losses, yes, but nothing like what’d happened.

But she  _ couldn’t _ falter. Not when the war needed to end, there and then, in a single decisive blow. Not when she’d killed Mandalore and provoked his people into a fury she’d never seen before. If she hadn’t given the order, she wouldn’t have had another chance. She didn’t  _ want _ to do it, but war has never been about wanting - she had her duty, to protect the Republic, and she couldn’t forsake that. The Jedi are supposed to hold their duty above everything else, and even if she’s not particularly good at that where some things are concerned (Obliss comes to mind), she’d thought they’d understand better what it means, to have to sacrifice for duty.

Revan forces the thoughts out of her mind - this isn’t the time or the place to wonder about what the Jedi might think of her. She doesn’t know that she particularly  _ wants _ to go back to the Order after all this, anyway; she doesn’t think they’d take well to her changed methods, or to her relationship with Malak. Shaking her head, she closes her eyes and reaches out into the Force - but there’s still, frustratingly,  _ nothing _ around her.

She’d  _ thought _ she sensed settlements, but perhaps she was wrong? There’s a lot of animal life, and with the disturbance in the Force being so close by, it’s possible she made a mistake.

The disturbance is- strange. If Revan reaches into the Force, she can’t feel its exact location, but she  _ can _ feel… something. She can feel where it gets stronger, and she has a sense that if she opened herself entirely to the Force, she could find her way to it on her own. But Malak asked her to be careful, and Bastila is waiting at the  _ Defender, _ and she has half a fleet sitting in the system and a superweapon above her head. She can always come back.

With that in mind, Revan jumps lightly down from a cliff top and lands on a new stretch of beach. The Force pulses around her, like a warning, and she frowns and tilts her head to one side, considering. At the far end of the beach there’s something that looks like a roughly-constructed compound, and she lets out a little huff of relief; this must be the settlement she’d felt out this way. 

As she gets closer, though, she can see blaster turrets outside the entrance, and while it looks abandoned, it doesn’t feel that way in the Force. There are people inside, and they’re- waiting. Wary.

The Force  _ twists _ and Revan is moving with it before she fully registers, and a body blurs past her and then there’s the sound of a savage battle cry and she is  _ surrounded. _ The warriors around her are like no sentient she’s ever seen before - reddish skin, strange rounded heads with eyes that stick out to the side, and they’re speaking a gibberish language that doesn’t share anything with any of the languages she’s ever heard. Except- it sounds familiar.

The droid in the Dantooine ruins. Before it’d found a dialect she understood, it’d spoken something like this.

So these must be- the remains of the Rakata.

They’re carrying spears and swords and none of the weapons properly block lightsabers; Revan doesn’t intend to fight at first but they don’t give her the choice. And there’s something like ten of them and she’s alone, and she slashes and spins with her sabers to keep giving herself space, dancing around and avoiding their weapons, and it’s  _ exhausting _ but she’s able to cleave through spear shafts and sword blades with her sabers.

Abruptly, after she’s killed the third Rakata warrior, one of them says something and all the others stop attacking, take a few steps back from her. Revan frowns, and then the Force  _ shrieks _ danger at her, but she doesn’t understand - what’s dangerous? They’ve stopped attacking.

There’s a whisper of sound and then something pricks into the side of her neck. Revan lifts her hand and feels at her neck, pulls out a small dart of some kind. A dart shouldn’t have been able to get through-

The breeze blows softly through her hair and against the back of her neck and stirs her lowered hood where it rests on her back.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Revan has just enough time to think  _ Malak will be furious _ before her knees give out and she collapses.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so this was once again supposed to have another whole ass scene to it but it's gonna be a Doozy and the chapter was already long, so i just expanded on some shit and figured i'd post it as-is. next chapter will deal with the fallout from everything that happens here, and then will either go into further Lehon shenanigans or drift over to Qatya to check in with her - i haven't decided yet lol. anyway, i hope yall enjoy!
> 
> god Revan and Malak have such an unhealthy relationship but they're so soft and i can't get over it i love them so much

Revan wakes up in an unfamiliar, large room - if it could be called a room. It’s huge, vaunted ceiling and multiple gates around the edges; in fact, as she props herself up on her elbows, it looks more like an arena than anything else.

An arena. 

That can’t be good.

The last thing she remembers is fighting the Rakata warriors, the dart in her neck, and then blackness. When she stretches out her awareness, to try and figure out exactly  _ where _ she is, the Force is sluggish to respond, and a faint headache starts to gather at her temples when she grabs for it. She frowns, grimacing - the healing burn on her face pulls uncomfortably, but the pain is nearly gone, subsided to an irritating itch - and reaches up to rub at her forehead almost absently.

It’s not until her fingers brush against bare skin that she realizes her mask is gone.

Her mask is  _ gone. _ Her face is visible to everyone here and she can’t hide and when she drops her hands to her belt her lightsabers aren’t there either, and  _ her mask is gone. _

Revan takes a shaky breath and shoves herself to her feet, even though her muscles are all slow to respond and she feels weak. She’s  _ exposed _ and unarmed and though she can still feel the Force, it slips like sand from her fingers whenever she tries to pull it around her. Kriffing Sith hells, how could this  _ happen? _

One of the gates opens, and Revan spins, reaching for weapons she doesn’t have. A single Rakata enters the arena, dressed in some kind of brown armor, with twin swords across his back and- and her lightsabers in his hands. She reaches for them in the Force, but it slides out of her grasp yet again. The Rakata is just  _ looking _ at her, and he can see her face, and she can’t quite manage to breathe.

He says something in the chattering language she can’t make out, then looks at her expectantly. From the faint sensations she can read from him, there’s curiosity, anger, and a barely-tempered hostility within him - he feels like some kind of warlord.

“I don’t understand your language,” Revan says, a little hopelessly, and tries to shove down the fear in her chest when she once again can’t call her sabers to her. “What have you done to me? Where is my mask?” Her voice shakes on the last question.

The Rakata speaks at her again, a growing frustration and clear impatience in his alien voice, and gestures with one hand. Her lightsabers are  _ right there _ but she can’t see her mask and she doesn’t know where it is, and there’s more Rakata strewn around the area, in the upper levels like they’re watching some kind of spectacle. Her heart is pounding in her chest - she can’t remember the last time she’s been this helpless.

“Give me my mask back,” she snaps, and this time her voice is laced with fear. “My mask and my lightsabers, they’re not  _ for _ you, and I’m not the one who attacked first.”

He shakes his head a little, starts to turn towards his gate again, and Revan reacts without thinking, lunges forward across the arena, dirt shifting beneath her boots. He  _ can’t _ leave her here, maskless and lightsaberless and barely able to touch the Force. If she can just grab her sabers she’ll be alright-

The Rakata roars something and draws one of the swords from his back, and she turns her momentum into a leap, yanks the second sword off his back as she flips and lands on her feet, sweeping the blade out towards him. He blocks, parries, and then they’re fighting in earnest, though he’s keeping her sabers firmly on him. The sword’s balance is all wrong from what she’s used to and it’s too long for her body, and it’s been so long since she’s fought with a weapon not made by her own hands she’s constantly off-kilter. The Rakata is  _ good, _ too, for a Force-null, and for a few minutes the only sounds are her harsh breathing and the clang of durasteel on durasteel.

Then the Rakata steps back from her, deliberately disengaging, and calls something out. The Force whispers to her but without its aid her movements are sluggish, like she’s running through a meter of standing water, and some kind of bolt buries itself in her calf just below her knee. Revan swears and staggers, and the Rakata lunges forward and cuts through her glove with his sword - she’s forced to yank her hand back and drop her stolen weapon to avoid losing her hand, and the blade still slices her fingers and sends blood dripping onto the sand beneath her.

No.  _ No! _

The Rakata scoops up his other sword and kicks her in the chest as she tries to stand, knocking her to the ground, and before she can recover he’s disappearing behind the gate he’d come out of. She staggers to her feet and runs to the gate, slams her fists into it, but there’s just a sound of wheezing laughter, and then a mechanism starts up, grinding gears, and she spins, presses her back against the wall as the gate on the far side of the arena rises, slowly.

And from behind it emerges a fully-grown rancor, large enough it could grab her in one of its claws, towering at least twice her height, and she’s weaponless and the Force is returning but too slowly and-

The rancor catches sight - or smell - of her, lowers its head, and charges.

And Revan  _ screams _ into the Force with everything she has.

_ Alek! _

~

It’s been six hours since the three of them split up on the beach Revan had crashed the  _ Defender _ on. It’s been four since the last time she checked in with him. It’s been one since Malak returned to the ship and found out from Bastila that Revan hasn’t come back.

He should’ve known she’d pull something like this. Sure, she’d promised to be careful, but when has she ever  _ actually _ done that? And after her disappearing act on Korriban, he supposes it’s only to be expected she’d go off on her own again - he just wishes she hadn't locked down her side of their bond so tightly. He’d thought that she’d understood how terrified he’d been, how much of a risk she’d taken. She’s not infallible, she could get hurt or killed when she’s alone, and what would the Republic do if they lost her?

What would  _ he _ do?

At least Bastila had managed to get in contact with the  _ Vengeance _ and explain their situation to Admiral Jenn, passing her the orders Revan had given before running off. And Malak’s returned to the ship with not only an armful of parts for repairs, but with knowledge: there’s a settlement on the northern beach, of aliens he  _ suspects _ are the ancient Rakata who built the Star Forge millennia ago, and while he hadn’t been able to speak their language they’d been friendly to him and had communicated to him through his datapad.

Now, though, there’s not much to do besides pace and wait. Malak is decent with mechanics, but Revan is, as she is in most things, better than him, and she’s always picky about the ships she flies, and he doesn’t particularly want to get a lecture from her when she does finally get back for repairing the stabilizers in a way she doesn’t like. Nor does he want to hand her a ready-made excuse for getting out of  _ his _ lecture, because Force damn it, eventually it’ll sink into her thick skull that she can’t just go off without talking to him.

Something flickers in the corner of his mind where their bond lies, a faint, dim flash of something like pain, and Malak frowns, straightening, notices Bastila turning to look at him from where she’s inspecting one of the two collapsible speeder bikes stored in the  _ Defender’s _ cargo bay. “What is it?” she asks.

“I don’t-” he starts to respond, and then abruptly the bond opens  _ wide. _

And Revan is  _ screaming. _

_ Alek! _

The name is accompanied by a rush of true  _ fear, _ and Malak staggers against the nearest wall from the force of it, heart leaping into his throat and choking him. She’s in trouble. She’s scared and in pain and she only ever uses his old name when she’s so afraid or upset she falls back on twenty years of habit.

He can count on one hand the number of times that’s happened since Malachor.

Malak is moving before he can think, grabbing the nearest bike and snapping it out to its full length, raw panic racing like lightning along his nerves, and his heart is racing and he can’t manage to get a full breath. Where is she? What’s happened?

“Malak, what-” Bastila starts, and he ignores her, jumping onto the bike.

“Revan,” is all he says, and then he’s starting the bike and gunning it to its full speed the instant he’s off the ship’s ramp. He doesn’t have  _ time _ to explain.

Revan is alone and in pain and afraid and she could be  _ dying, _ and he’s  _ not there to protect her. _ He promised himself years ago that he’d always be there to keep her safe, because she wouldn’t protect herself, and he’s failed her a few times before but they’ve always made it out alright in the end. But the Rakata tribe he’d found had warned him about another tribe of hostile warriors, and he should’ve  _ known, _ of course Revan would find herself in trouble.

He can’t lose her. He’s known that since early on in the war, the first time she was injured, but after years of war and imprisonment and torture, after  _ Vitiate, _ he knows with absolute certainty that if Revan dies - if their bond breaks - he would too. He doesn’t want to live without her. He doesn’t know  _ how. _

Malak’s spent nearly his entire life in Revan’s shadow, at her shoulder. Without her to follow, who even is he?

He leans low over the bike’s handles, presses the accelerator harder, and closes his eyes, gives himself over to the Force entirely. He latches onto the bond, letting it pull him across the jungle, avoiding obstacles with the Force’s senses, focuses solely on the sense of  _ Revan. _ She’s scared and hurting, he can tell that much, and the longer he focuses on her the more he can make out - she feels vulnerable and she’s constantly moving. Fighting for her life. Oh, Force, what’s  _ happening _ to her?

He never should’ve let her go off alone. Never again. He’s never letting this happen again.

There’s another brief bolt of pain and then Revan’s reaching desperately for him again.  _ Alek, please, _ she’s calling, shouting it into the Force, directionless, like she’s struggling to feel him, which- should be impossible. Unless her connection to the Force has been tampered with.

It feels like his entire body has been hollowed out, like he’s nothing more than a vessel for the cold  _ terror _ filling him until he can’t breathe. Malak tightens his hands on the bike’s handles and grits his teeth and shoves as much desperate reassurance at Revan as he can.

_ I’m coming. I’m coming, just hold on. _

Up ahead, the trees widen out and disappear as sand takes over from the grass; there’s some kind of compound at the far end of the beach, though he’s going so fast he can’t really make out any details. The Force warns him of a cluster of hostile life-forms at its entrance and just before he reaches it, Malak  _ leaps _ and flips in midair, igniting his lightsaber and landing poised on his feet as the speeder bike crashes into the group of Rakata and the compound gates and explodes. 

More warriors, who survived the blast, rush him, but his fear is a living thing clawing at his skin from within and the Force feeds on it, and their weapons are simple, can’t stop plasma, and he’s twisting and spinning through them until they’re nothing but broken bodies bleeding on the sand.

He doesn’t have the time to care about them.

The compound gates are bent and twisted and burning, and he summons the Force into his hands and  _ pushes _ until they go flying off their hinges, and with his lightsaber still lit, a vivid blue, he pulls the Force around him and runs inside.

The layout is fairly simple, wide hallways and rooms, and Rakata warriors everywhere. Most of them don’t even have the time to realize they’re under attack before he’s cutting through them. Revan’s panic hasn’t abated in the slightest and he doesn’t know how long she can hold out against whatever or whoever she’s fighting, and he doesn’t care what it takes. He  _ has _ to get to her. He has to. He  _ has to. _

Not all of the Rakata in his path are warriors. Malak doesn’t have the time to pick and choose, though - anyone in his way dies. His fear is a heavy, palatable thing, a cloak around his shoulders, but on its heels is a bright, hot  _ anger. _ Anger at these  _ primitives _ for daring to take and hurt Revan, when she’s a thousand lightyears their better, when they can hardly stand against  _ him; _ he knows they didn’t take her fairly. If they were powerful enough to capture her in a fair fight he’d be dead by now.

They don’t even have proper  _ blasters. _

The Force leads him down a long hallway and towards the far end of it he can hear what sounds like cheers and yelling, and then a guttural  _ roar _ that’s strangely familiar. Malak  _ snarls  _ and pushes himself faster, and he hurls his lightsaber point-first into the door at the end of the hall and grabs onto the hilt with the Force, yanks it in a rough square and pulls it back to his hand, then shoves forward until the doors blast away. By the time he makes it to them his path is clear.

Beyond the door is a large circular space with a dirt floor and several different gates, as well as an apparent second floor, but that’s not what’s important. What registers  _ first _ is the massive rancor bellowing and charging across the room.

The second thing Malak sees is Revan, struggling to push to her feet as one leg buckles beneath her and she leaves a bloody streak on the wall behind her with one hand. She’s unarmed and her mask is gone and her green eyes are wide and horrified.

The anger in his chest  _ explodes. _

And the Force responds.

_ “Hey!” _ he shouts, and both the rancor and Revan turn to look at him. The Force stretches out around him like wings and he  _ leaps _ into the air, comes crashing down on the rancor’s back just behind its giant head. It flails and bucks but the Force is with him and Malak is  _ terrified _ and  _ furious _ and they  _ hurt Revan. _

No one hurts Revan. Not anymore. Malak won’t let them.

(It’s all he can do to make up for what she’s gone through for him, with Vitiate.)

Malak stabs his lightsaber down through the rancor’s brain, feels it start to shudder underneath him, and with all the force he can manage he carves a line straight through its face, then gets his feet under him and jumps. Throws out a hand and catches onto the edge of the railing surrounding the upper balcony, pulls himself up, and then he’s cutting his way through the Rakata warriors here. Most of them are armed and they’re the ones who were cheering, and this is an  _ arena, _ they took Revan and hurt her and put her in a gladiatorial fight to the death. One designed to be long and painful and  _ entertaining. _

A quick death by his lightsaber is too good for them.

Revan has always been the better fighter, the one most closely connected to the Force out of the two of them, but Malak is the only one who can regularly beat her in a spar, and he’s hardly  _ weak. _ With his fear and anger fueling him, he’s a storm in the Force, as he deflects and cuts through flimsy weapons with both his saber and the Force. He keeps half his mind on the bond - Revan has slid down the wall to sit, and her fear has ebbed, some - and then, once he’s cleared out the upper level, leaving the balcony full of corpses, he jumps down to the dirt floor, tucks into a roll and comes to his feet. The place should be empty, except for him and Revan, and yet the Force is still swirling around him, hissing  _ threat, _ and-

“Behind you,” Revan shouts, shoving to her feet desperately, something flashing across her face as she pushes off the wall and half-runs, half-limps towards him.

Malak spins just as the sound of lightsabers igniting comes from behind him, and a tall Rakata with some kind of basic brown armor lunges at him from one of the gates, Revan’s violet and silver lightsabers in his hands. 

For a moment, Malak’s vision goes red, and he  _ snarls, _ wraps both hands around his saber hilt and leaps forward, brings his saber crashing into the Rakata’s guard. “You have  _ no right _ to touch those,” he hisses.

The Rakata says something back, and despite the fact that he’s clearly never used lightsabers before he knows what he’s doing, knows how to dual-wield, is  _ far _ too fast for a Force-blind alien. His fighting style is harsh and aggressive, and anger and hostility and something that feels distinctly  _ Mandalorian _ swirls around him in the Force. It reminds Malak too much of the war and standing over Revan’s unconscious body, protecting her from three commandos and a general because she’d been so immersed in the Force she didn’t react until it was too late.

Malak has failed to protect Revan before. He won’t fail her now.

He brings his saber up into a guard as the Rakata attacks, two heavy slashes that Malak blocks easily, and he drops one hand from his saber hilt to grab the Force and shove the chieftain back. He follows up with a set of fast, twisting attacks and feints, but the warrior blocks every one, and Malak curls his lip. He hates, suddenly, that this alien, this twisted  _ creature, _ took Revan and hurt her and yet Malak is no better than him in a fight.

No. He won’t accept this. 

Revan is too close to them, and Malak spares her a brief glance.  _ Stay back, _ he tells her, leaves her no room to argue even though he can tell she wants to.  _ You’re hurt. I can handle this. _

And he reaches into the Force, into the panic he felt at her first cry of his name, into the anger burning through his bones right now, and he channels every ounce of it into his lightsaber as he abandons his favorite bastardized mix of Shien, Soresu, and Djem So for the aggressive Juyo stances. He  _ will not _ let this Rakata warrior hurt Revan any further.

(In the back of his mind, he can almost hear Master Zhar,  _ attachments are dangerous, Alek. Fear leads to anger, and anger to the Dark. You’re a bright young Jedi, but I worry for what could happen if you follow this path you’re on, if you choose to stay at Revan’s side rather than make your own way in the galaxy. _

His old master never  _ had _ understood them.)

The more aggressive form feeds off his anger and Malak begins to push the Rakata chieftain back, focused and intent. The chieftain doesn’t try to speak again, and for another long, drawn out space the world narrows to the clashing lightsabers and the cresting wave of emotion Malak’s balancing on, and then the Rakata stumbles and Malak  _ smiles. _ A surge of satisfaction goes through him as he scores a long line down his enemy’s side, and then-

_ Malak, stop, you’ll lose yourself! _ It’s Revan and she’s practically pleading with him.  _ I know what it’s like, I’ve done it before. Don’t make my mistakes. The Dark Side is my burden to bear, not yours. _

Malak hesitates. Looks over at Revan, the only one he’s ever needed in his life, pale from pain and exhaustion as she walks towards him, and for a moment it’s just the two of them, staring at each other, the way it’s always been since the beginning. She’s reaching a hand out to him, green eyes dark with worry.  _ My burden to bear, _ she says, as though he’d let her take everything on herself. Hasn’t she learned by now, they’re two halves of a whole, they’re at their best when they’re together, when they share their burdens?

_ Stop trying to pull that shit, _ he says.  _ You don’t need to protect me, Revan. _

_ Then why are you trying to protect me? _

Malak can’t look away from her. His saber drops, just a little, as the surge of fear and anger dies and with it the rushing wave of the Force.  _ Because I’ve failed you, _ he can’t say.  _ Because I’ve watched you get hurt too many times and I can’t take it anymore. Because I love you. _

_ I don’t know, _ he says instead. It’s a lie.

There’s a harsh, chattering laugh, and Malak flinches as a blur of movement registers in his peripheral vision. The Rakata. He’d been fighting, and he’d let himself get distracted.  _ Kriffing Sith hells. _ He snaps his saber up in a guard and twists back to face the chieftain, except-

The Rakata is lunging forward, a savage pleasure radiating off him as he swings the stolen lightsabers. But he’s not aiming for Malak. Instead, he’s turned, changed his aim.

To Revan.

Revan, blood still dripping from one hand. Revan, with one leg that’s struggling to support her weight. Revan, unarmed, because this chieftain stole her lightsabers. Revan, who he promised to protect, who told him  _ not _ to protect her. Revan, who he  _ loves. _

Revan, who’s still staring at him, will never react in time to protect herself.

_ “No!” _

Malak doesn’t even recognize his own voice. His saber falls from his hand, hits the ground, and then he  _ throws _ himself into the Force and reaches with every ounce of desperation in him.

The Rakata starts to bring Revan’s sabers down at her. She’s moving, but too late, she’s going to at least get hit, and then-

And then the chieftain freezes, lifting slightly off the ground, his entire body convulsing. The saber hilts drop from his hands and Revan catches them, and the Rakata is helpless but Malak can’t let him go. There’s a blinding burst of  _ fury _ that wells up from somewhere deep within him - the Rakata attacked someone  _ unarmed. _

Malak clenches his hands into fists almost without realizing it. There’s a sickening  _ crack _ and then the chieftain goes limp and his presence in the Force vanishes.

He’s dead.

Revan is safe.

(But what has he  _ done?) _

~

Malak is rushing forward to pull her into his arms almost as soon as the Rakata drops to the ground. Revan clings to him, a little desperately, as her leg gives out again - it’s not a major injury but it’s been bleeding and it’s in the muscle - and he lowers them both carefully to the ground before burying his face in her hair.

She can’t blame him. 

Beneath her cheek, he’s  _ shaking, _ and she doesn’t think it’s from adrenaline. His arms are so tight around her it hurts, but she can’t bring herself to complain, not when she just spent the last who knows how long struggling to stay alive, not when for a long moment she really thought she wouldn’t make it back, that Malak wouldn’t come. Or rather, that he wouldn’t make it in time, because she knows he wouldn’t abandon her.

“You’re never going anywhere alone again,” he rasps out, his voice hoarse, and he shifts to press a kiss to the top of her head. She can feel him let out a deep, shuddering sigh and for a moment she just closes her eyes and presses her cheek into his shoulder.

_ You came for me, _ she thinks. She doesn’t mean to project it, but his arms tighten around her and she thinks he must’ve caught the thought anyway.

_ Of course I did. And I mean it - I’m never letting you go off on your own again. I can’t keep doing this. _

“I meant it when I said you don’t need to protect me,” she mumbles into his robes. She knows she doesn’t exactly sound firm, but Malak’s arms are too much a comfort and the sheer  _ relief _ she feels is enough to leave her exhausted and limp against his chest.  _ He took my mask, I don’t know where it is. _

_ We’ll find it, _ he promises, rubs a circle into her back with one hand.  _ “Force, _ Revan, you terrified me.”

“They drugged me,” she says quietly, and he sucks in a sharp breath. “I got hit with some kind of dart and whatever it was coated in - it was a sedative, and when I woke up I could barely feel the Force, and couldn’t work it properly. I was afraid you didn’t hear me.”

“I always hear you,” he says, his voice low and steady. It’s a promise.

Revan closes her eyes and curls her hands into his robes, listens to his heartbeat and the feel of his mind against hers, lets the familiarity of it soothe her. She’s alive, and so is Malak, and things are going to be alright. (She can’t quite forget the look on his face, the way he’d shifted into the most aggressive saber forms he could. After all the promises and concessions she’s made to Vitiate to keep Malak safe - she can’t let him follow her down this road.)

“Where’s Bastila?” she asks after a moment, not moving, and she feels a sort of sheepish embarrassment across the bond as Malak shifts, resting his chin on top of her head.

“She’s still at the ship,” he says, and pushes a half-second of memory at her: Bastila demanding to know where he was going, his response of  _ Revan _ before driving off. “I didn’t have time to explain.”

“She’s probably terrified,” Revan says, can’t quite stifle her amusement. “We really ought to stop doing this to her.”  _ What happened to that speeder? _

The embarrassment that floods the bond at her question is nearly palpable.  _ I… blew it up, _ he admits, and she can’t stop herself from bursting into laughter.

“You blew it up,” she says, almost unable to get the words out. “You  _ blew it up.” _

“It’s not funny,” he grumbles, and she laughs harder, pulls back to look at him. His face - his entire head - is pink and he won’t meet her gaze.

“Oh, Revan, you should stop wasting speeders and shuttles,” she says, mimicking his voice. “You don’t need to keep crashing them into people, you just like the drama of it.”

“Shut up.”

“You know, the Chancellor’s going to stop granting your requisitions if you keep this up,” she continues, before sliding back to her normal voice. “How many times did you give me that speech?”

“Shut  _ up.” _

“Ten times? Twenty?”

“More like a hundred,” he mutters.

“And now here you are, and you blew up a speeder. I’m so proud of you.” She frees one hand to wipe at her eyes; she’s grinning so wide her cheeks hurt. It feels good, after the fear from earlier.

“I was in a rush, okay?” He sounds annoyed, but she can feel the relief and a brush of amusement across their bond. “You would’ve done the same thing.”

“That’s  _ exactly my point.” _ Revan shakes her head, chuckling, and tugs his head down to lean their foreheads together. “You’re an idiot.”

“Asshole,” he says, but there’s no heat behind it.

She’s alive. She’s alive and mostly unharmed and  _ Malak _ is alive and unharmed, though for a moment she’d been afraid he’d get himself hurt trying to protect her. (If he has, it’s not a physical wound, and she doesn’t know how she can help.) It’s that nearly indescribable feeling of relief - one she’s intimately familiar with from surviving long, difficult battles - that fuels her as she closes the last of the distance between them to softly press her lips against his. The warmth of the kiss is even more of a reassurance that she’s truly  _ alright _ than anything else has been.

Malak kisses her nearly desperately, framing her face with one hand and bringing the other up around the back of her neck, and she can feel an echo of his utter  _ terror _ from earlier in the way his mouth moves on hers. He was truly, deeply afraid, she realizes, and something twists in her chest at the thought.

“I love you,” she whispers when he finally pulls back to catch his breath. It’s the first time she’s properly said the words out loud.

The wave of raw  _ emotion _ that crosses the bond between them makes her think maybe she should’ve said it sooner.

Malak crushes his lips to hers again, briefly, then pulls back, meets her eyes and cups her face between both his hands. “Are you sure?” he breathes, voice filled with thick, painful  _ hope, _ and the uncertainty in his eyes makes her  _ ache. _

“Of course I am,” Revan says, brings one hand up to take his wrist, gently. “I think I always have, I just didn’t know it until Korriban.”

Malak’s eyes fall closed and he leans forward, presses his forehead to hers again. “I love you too,” he murmurs, and there’s a ghost of a smile across his face. “And I  _ know _ I always have.”

Revan’s not sure how long they sit there, just the two of them in a bubble of warmth, but eventually the blood on her hand and the ache in her leg intrude enough she can’t get comfortable, and Malak notices. “We should go back,” he says quietly, and she sighs and nods a little.

“I wish you hadn’t blown up the speeder,” she admits, and for a moment his face is utterly confused before it shifts into a dawning realization and horror.

“Fuck,” he says succinctly.

Yeah, that about sums it up.

“I can walk,” she says, and he’s already shaking his head before she finishes. “Seriously, Malak, what do you think I did before you got here?”

“I know exactly what you did before I got here,” he says, “and that’s why you shouldn’t be walking. Let me look at your leg.”

Revan sighs and reluctantly sits back and gets her legs out in front of her, twists as best as she can and tugs up the hem of her robes, showing where a feathered bolt pierced partway through her calf muscle just above the top of her boot. The skin around the injury is coated with blood, mostly-dried but with a little still oozing out around the bolt, and he frowns, feels concerned.

“I don’t think the medbay got damaged when we crashed,” Revan says, “and I’m sure I can get the main power back online. We have kolto, don’t we? I can spend a few hours in the tank and I’ll be able to fight again tomorrow.”

Malak sighs. “Probably,” he agrees. “I don’t know if I should leave the bolt in or take it out. I don’t want it to damage you further, but i also don’t want you to bleed out.”

She shrugs. “If I’m just going into kolto later, it doesn’t really matter if I damage my muscle a little more on the way back,” she says, which she thinks is quite logical, really.

He evidently doesn’t agree, from the  _ look _ he shoots her. “That’s not how injuries work, Revan.”

“Yes it is. Now let’s go before Bastila lets the ship get stolen trying to find us.” She pushes herself to her feet, wincing when she puts weight on her injured leg, and Malak is abruptly right next to her, swearing and reaching out to steady her. “Stop fussing, I’m  _ fine.” _

“You are  _ not _ fine, and I didn’t rush all the way here and murder an entire compound just for you to kriff your leg up so much you can’t walk.” Something bitter and pained twists through his voice at the words.

They’ll need to talk about that. But she’s not sure he wants to.

“Can we find my mask first and argue about how we’re getting back second?” she asks, and Malak sighs and nods. His previous good mood seems to have all but vanished.

“Only if you sit  _ down, _ I’ll look for you,” he says, and she wrinkles her nose at him but does as he asks. He’s not likely to budge, after all, and she really wants her mask back. Even though it’s just the two of them here, she can’t quite shake the vulnerable feeling of waking up without her mask and her sabers, and she wants the comforting weight of it against her face.

It only takes him a couple minutes to find it, sitting in the nook the Rakata had been hiding in, and he brings it back to her and tosses it at her. “Here,” he says, and she catches it and immediately fits it to her face, letting out a sigh of relief. “Do you need to wear it? There’s no one here but me.”

Revan hesitates, then pushes the feeling of vulnerability across the bond, the way it makes her skin itch, the way it feels like something cold and creeping crawling through her veins. “I need to,” she says, and tries not to notice the note of pleading that enters her voice. She needs him to understand.

Malak looks at her for a moment, and she can feel how much he hates it when she wears the mask, but he just nods tiredly. “Alright,” he says, and she almost changes her mind, almost says she can leave it off a little longer, but then: “I’ll need to carry you back to the ship.”

Revan’s brain comes to a screeching halt. “You  _ what?” _ she says, slowly, and he groans and puts his head in his hands.

“Don’t be difficult, Revan,” he says. “You can’t walk on your leg and we don’t have the speeder.”

“Because  _ you _ blew it up,” she says churlishly. “You’re not carrying me, it’s undignified.”

“I don’t  _ care,” _ he snaps, dropping his hands to look at her, and she’s pinned in place by his stare. Clear  _ frustration _ pours across their bond, and for a moment, he just holds her gaze before sighing and deflating. “Just- work with me. Please?”

“Fine,” she mutters, scowling behind her mask. “But I’m  _ fine, _ I can walk on my own.”

“I’m not arguing this with you. Come on, stand up.” 

She gets to her feet, carefully, and has to admit - to herself only, of course - that maybe he has the right idea - she’s not actually sure she  _ could _ walk all the way back to the  _ Defender _ on her own now, and collapsing halfway there would be even less dignified than letting Malak carry her.

Between him lifting and her jumping, she manages to get onto his back easily enough, and he wraps his arms around her legs, careful to avoid the bolt in her calf, and starts out of the compound towards the beach and the ship beyond. Revan rests her chin on his shoulder and very deliberately does not let him feel how nice it is to just be  _ close _ to him.

That feeling doesn’t stop her from complaining directly in his ear for the entire two-hour walk back.

~

Bastila is, somewhat understandably,  _ upset _ when they get back.

“Where have you  _ been?” _ she demands, voice sharp but her grey eyes filled with more worry than anything else. “It’s been  _ hours _ and I had no idea where you went or what was going on!”

Revan, who had forced Malak to put her down and let her walk somewhat normally once they’d reached the entrance to the beach, sighs. “It wasn’t my fault,” she says, and Bastila narrows her eyes. “I met some of the locals, they didn’t like me, they drugged me, and I ended up facing a rancor in an arena with no weapons.”

“I distinctly remember you saying it would be fine if we split up, because, and I quote,  _ I highly doubt there’s anything all that dangerous here.” _ Bastila looks like she’s about ready to slap someone.

Revan grimaces and looks away. “I would’ve been fine if the drug hadn’t interfered with my ability to use the Force,” she points out.

It’s the wrong thing to say. “That doesn’t  _ matter, _ Revan! The drug did, and you could have died,  _ again, _ and  _ Malak,” _ and Bastila switches her fierce glare to the other Jedi, “ran off without even an explanation beyond his sheer panic. And then neither of you bothered to comm me! I’ve been fending off your admiral for  _ hours _ promising you were alright, just out of touch, and believe me, she hardly wanted to listen to a twenty-year-old padawan who only got a rank because she’s a Jedi and you favor her.”

Revan blinks. “I wasn’t even involved in your joining the military,” she points out, and the sound Bastila makes makes her immediately regret the words.

“Again, that doesn’t  _ matter, _ stop changing the subject. It’s quite obvious from the way you’ve been treating me that you like me, and that’s why I was offered a commission as an officer. Now can we please  _ focus?” _

“I  _ am _ focusing,” Revan mutters. Malak elbows her in the side.

“I’m sorry, Bastila,” he says, even sounds sincere. Wild. “I should’ve thought to comm you once Revan wasn’t in mortal danger anymore.”

The younger Jedi looks only a little mollified. “While I appreciate the apology, this seems to be a habit for the both of you, and I  _ cannot _ be constantly left behind to clean up your messes and handle your logistics. I don’t know anything about fleets, and the admiral knows it.”

“I was only twenty-two when I joined up,” Revan says with a shrug. “Jenn doesn’t care about age, just competence; she’s been my admiral from the beginning and she never argued with me.”

“You assume I  _ am _ competent,” Bastila says through grit teeth. “The Jedi Enclave doesn’t exactly teach us war strategy,  _ especially _ not after the war began.” Which seems a bit backwards to Revan, but with Vrook in charge, she isn’t surprised - the old man  _ hates _ Revan and anyone who followed her with a passion. “Force, are you like this all the time?”

Malak rubs the back of his neck. “I think she lost a decent amount of blood,” he says, “and she’s still angry I forced her to let me carry her.”

_ “Malak!” _ Revan whirls on her partner, only for her leg to half-buckle, forcing her to grab onto his arm for support. “The hells?”  _ I didn’t want her to know about that! _

“I  _ know _ you didn’t, but kriffing hells, Revan,” and he grabs her arms to steady her. “There’s nothing wrong with admitting you need help, especially not to someone you-” He pauses, fumbles for the right word. “-like.”

“I’m not  _ weak,” _ she snaps, yanks her arms out of his grip and storms towards the ship - or tries to, at least. She can’t manage anything more than an awkward hobble, but when Bastila steps forward to help, looking concerned, she gathers the Force into her hands and pushes the other woman away (not  _ hard, _ but enough to make her stumble). “And I don’t need  _ help.” _

“Revan-”

She turns her back on him and climbs the ship’s ramp, pushes through the door and closes it firmly behind her before he can finish his sentence.

She’s  _ fine. _ She doesn’t need anyone’s help, not over some stupid minor leg injury that barely even hurts. She stalks over to the holotable (Bastila seems to have restored the main power, at least, which she appreciates) and powers it on, comms Jenn, though she has to lean on the holotable and only rest the toe of her injured leg on the ground to stay standing steadily.

The fleet admiral wants a report, and Revan gives it to her, mostly focusing on the details Malak had given her on the walk back about the Rakata tribe he’d found on the northern beach, though she briefly mentions they’d encountered a small hostile tribe and dealt with them appropriately. She also brings up the disturbance in the Force - which she suspects to be related to the Star Forge somehow - and details her plans to make proper contact with the Rakata and explore the disturbance while searching for a way to disable whatever frequency or pulse crashed their ship.

They discuss the fleet for a few minutes, then Jenn brings up Bastila, quietly.  _ “She has a good heart, and a good mind, but she doesn’t have any experience, sir,” _ the admiral says, and Revan sighs and nods, fights the urge to rub at her temples under her mask.  _ “Respectfully, I know you’re looking to replace your former third-in-command, but Commander Shan isn’t fit for the role, not yet.” _

“I know,” Revan sighs again, leans a little more into the holotable, then stifles a wince when her cut hand twists the wrong way. “But she can keep up with me in a spar, and you know I don’t trust most of the Jedi left with command. I need someone who understands me.”

_ “I know.” _ Jenn, surprisingly, is- smiling?  _ “I may have good news for you on that front - though I can’t promise how true it is, there hasn’t been enough time for it to be properly confirmed.” _

Despite the pain and the tiredness, Revan straightens, frowning. “You’re talking about military gossip,” she says. The army grapevine has a surprising tendency to be right about a great deal of things, Revan’s discovered. “What have you heard?”

_ “It’s been confirmed that General Petheir returned to Coruscant and the Jedi Temple only a few days ago,” _ Jenn says.  _ “Rumors going around say she’s planning to return to the war.” _

Revan’s eyes widen behind the mask and it feels a little like the floor’s dropped out from under her. “Qatya’s back?” she breathes, shaken and not trying to hide it.

_ “So they’re saying. All I’ve been able to confirm is that she did in fact return to the Jedi Temple. But her exile is well-known, and quite a few people are speculating the only reason she’d be allowed back is if the Jedi intend to help us. It’s been a big boost in morale, honestly.” _

Revan frowns. “Or if the Council wants to keep an eye on us,” she points out, and Jenn grimaces a little. “Not that Qatya would report to them.” She almost can’t believe it, still - it feels a little surreal, like a dream. “I haven’t seen her since Malachor,” she admits.

_ “Very few have. So please, keep your options open; Commander Shan will be a good asset to us, I agree, but you won’t do her any favors by rushing her into command early, especially when it isn’t needed.” _ There’s the sound of voices in the background of the comm, and Jenn shakes her head, a flash of irritation crossing her normally-composed face.  _ “I have to sign off, but please contact me when you have any news, and I’ll update you if I hear anything more about these rumors.” _

“I will,” Revan promises. “See to your command, Admiral.”

Jenn salutes and the image vanishes.

Could it be true? Could Qatya really be coming back?

Revan’s friend and third-in-command had been  _ devastated _ by what happened at Malachor, and though Revan hadn’t seen her after the Mass Shadow Generator was activated and Bao-Dur carried her unconscious body back onto the  _ Vengeance _ with a quiet, sick horror in his eyes and a tremor in his hands, she’d heard the same news everyone else had: that Qatya had been sentenced to exile by the Jedi High Council for her crimes during the war. She’d also heard what only the Jedi still with the fleet did, which was that Qatya’s connection to the Force had been severed. Revan had thought something like that would be  _ permanent, _ but if Qatya’s returned to the Temple, it can only be as a Jedi.

She doesn’t think her friend would’ve gone back out of choice. The Council wouldn’t have  _ let _ her. So they want or need her for something, and Revan suspects she knows what it is.

They feel threatened. And they don’t trust her.

Oh, they can’t deny that the Sith Empire exists anymore, and they’d promised the Chancellor they’d help with the war effort if the Senate voted, but that doesn’t mean they agree with the decision to go to war - Revan knows all too well their opinion on war as a whole. And she knows they think she’s dangerous, and with Bastila having told them about her struggles with the Dark (which she’s still not happy about), they likely think she’s poised to turn Sith herself. As though she’d ever join the Sith willingly.

(Except she thinks about a dream with Vitiate and a promise made and a fight in the Sith Citadel, and she thinks maybe she doesn’t have to be willing.)

Their whole plan to watch her and possibly drag her back to them for judgement will backfire, though. Qatya’s loyalty has been to Revan herself since the war began. Nothing the Council can do will change that.

Revan can’t help but smile, although there’s no one inside the ship and her mask is still on. Qatya is  _ coming back. _ Vitiate’s defeat gets more and more certain with each passing day.

(And Revan doesn’t let herself worry about what will happen to her when that defeat finally comes.)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY IT'S SO LONG THERE'S NOTHING I CAN DO literally there's nowhere to cut this beast or like... anything. you'll see when you read it. i'm so sorry.
> 
> this was not the plan. this was nowhere NEAR the plan. why do they keep doing this to me. the scene i was supposed to write LAST chapter still has to be written because this is one giant ass scene and i didn't plan this and jesus fuck why.
> 
> erm. i don't even know what to say about this chapter tbh. enjoy the insanity? hello welcome to Revan Time?
> 
> please leave a comment i'm pretty sure my soul left my body while i was writing this

Revan is elbow-deep in metal and grease in the medbay when she hears two sets of footsteps walking through the ship. After her conversation with Jenn, she’d poked around in the cockpit for a while, figuring out what repairs had already been made and running diagnostics; as expected, the landing gear, stabilizers, hyperdrive, and sublight engines all need repairs, and the medbay hadn’t come fully online, but the life-support systems, main power, and the navicomputer are all up and running again, for which she’s grateful. Doing repairs on backup power is a pain in the ass.

She’d originally planned to start repairs on the sublights, but once she’d started hunting tools down her leg had seen fit to start burning enough she could barely put any weight on it, and so she’d reluctantly decided that maybe getting the medbay - and thus the kolto tank - functional would be smarter. So here she is, her injured hand wrapped in a length of bandage, crossbow bolt carefully pulled out of her leg and the puncture wrapped tightly to keep it from bleeding everywhere, on her knees, half-hidden behind the curve of the kolto tank, a hydrospanner tucked into her hair and parts and tools scattered all around her. 

She’s pulled most of her robes off, to avoid getting them dirty, and so she’s just in her underarmor pants and an overshirt she’d stolen from Malak’s spare clothes stash with the sleeves rolled up. The shirt is too big for her, hanging off her frame and down nearly to mid-thigh, but it’s comfortable, and she’d been able to pull it on without taking her mask off. It’s been ages since she’s done anything but sleep with so few layers on, and she has to admit she’s a lot more comfortable than she’d be if she were still in her robes and armor. She pulls her mask off, sets it down beside her knees, then pulls a panel off the wall and peers around inside. She’s fairly sure the problematic connection is in here somewhere.

“Revan?” she hears Bastila call, quietly but pitched to carry, and she makes a sort of acknowledging noise, the best she can do with a wrench between her teeth. “Where are you?”

“Medbay,” she attempts to say, but it comes out more like _mmph-bmmph,_ and quietly enough she doubts Bastila can hear her. Oh well - she doesn’t entirely want to talk to anyone right now.

Bastila’s footsteps walk past the medbay door, then pause and double back; Revan doesn’t pull her head out of the panel she’s working in, and she doesn’t pull her concentration away from the ship’s guts in front of her or the torch she’s hovering over her head with the Force. “There you are,” the younger Jedi says. “You should be resting.”

“Just let her work,” Malak says, his voice much closer. “It’s the closest she’ll get to rest until we fix the kolto tank.”

He’s not wrong. Revan pulls the wrench out of her mouth and nudges a few wires out of her way, and then something sparks and sends a sharp shock down her arm. “Kriffing-” she snaps, slides into a handful of curses from about five different languages. She pulls her head back from the panel (cracking her head a little as she does, which elicits another string of swearing), drops the wrench to the ground, and swipes her mask up, turning to glare balefully at Malak as she goes to secure it to her face. “You distracted me,” she says, irritated.

Malak - leaning against the patient bed with his arms crossed - reaches out with one hand, and she feels the Force swirl around him for half a heartbeat before her mask is pulling out of her hand and landing in his.

“The hells!” She pushes away from the wall, grimacing as her leg aches, and turns to face him properly. In the Force, she can sense Bastila hovering in the door, but not entirely stepping inside. “Give it back!”

“We need to talk, Revan,” he says, sighing, “and that’s hard enough for me to do when you’re wearing one of my shirts as it is. I want to see your face.”

“You already know everything I’m feeling,” she mutters, pushes her hair out of her face and reaches up to set the still-lit torch on the ground. “And there’s nothing to talk about. I briefed Jenn already.” She ignores the other part of his sentence; she’s in pain and exhausted and her skin still crawls with a feeling of _weakness_ and she doesn’t have the energy to figure out what the hells he’s going on about. What does it matter that she’s wearing his shirt? It’s comfortable.

“Bastila doesn’t,” he points out, “and I’m not- This isn’t about the mission, or the war, or any of that, so can you stop looking at me like that and let us talk?”

Revan sighs, casts a glance back at the wall behind her. “I almost have the kolto tank up and running,” she says, but he’s not swayed.

“That’s good, but you can finish it after this.”

Bastila finally walks the rest of the way into the room, comes to a stop by Malak, and immediately turns a bright red as soon as she lays eyes on Revan - Revan doesn’t understand it, personally. Yes, she’s taken off her robes, is that really so strange? “Fine,” she says, shifts as surreptitiously as she can to lean her head against the kolto tank and stretch her injured leg out in front of her. The puncture wound is pulsing with a dull, throbbing pain, and she hadn’t taken any meds, wanting her mind clear so she didn’t accidentally electrocute herself. From the way Malak’s looking at her, she knows he can tell, is probably even picking up on the pain. She tightens her shields a little more and a furrow forms between his brows.

“You know we don’t see your injuries as weaknesses,” Bastila says, though she stumbles a little over the words and is determinedly not looking at Revan. “You don’t have to hide them from us - there’s nothing wrong with needing help. I don’t quite know why you refuse to understand that.”

“I don’t want to have this conversation,” Revan says sharply, every muscle going tense. Of _course_ Bastila doesn’t understand. Even Malak doesn’t understand, not really; he’s the only one who could, but he’s never understood why she wears the mask, the armor, the cloak, why she chose to keep the robes she found on Dromund Kaas. He doesn’t see why she can’t just take the mask off and leave it behind. And if _Malak,_ who’s been with her since the beginning, who was there on Cathar and every other world after, who stood by her side when she snarled at the Jedi High Council and followed her as she strode into the Senate Tower and demanded a commission and a command - if Malak can’t understand, how could Bastila hope to?

Malak’s eyes flash just a little. “We’re having it anyway,” he says, firm and frustrated. “You need to stop snapping at us every time we try to help you.”

He doesn’t understand. He’s been at her back since her first victory, since the Republic soldiers first began to whisper her name, since she was promoted straight from commander to general (back before the Jedi were properly integrated into the command structure, the ground troops staged on the _Vengeance_ had been under the command of an older man who’d fought against Exar Kun; Revan had been placed under his command, with Alek even farther down the command chain. Then their first battle had seen the man seriously injured and half their troops lost due to his incompetent strategies, and Revan had taken control of the battle and pried a victory straight from the jaws of certain defeat. The first battle of the war, and already the soldiers near her were starting to talk about her). He’s _been here,_ and yet he doesn’t understand.

Maybe he hasn’t tried to.

Revan pushes to her feet, has to lean against the kolto tank to stay standing, but she hates the way it feels like sitting in front of the Council as a youngling watching them debate her pride as though she wasn’t even there. Malak makes an aborted gesture towards her, like he’s reaching to help, or maybe to support, but she stiffens a little and he stops. “I don’t _snap_ at you,” she says, and there’s enough force behind the words it should make him leave it alone but he just raises an eyebrow instead.

But it’s Bastila who responds. “You do,” she says, her voice strangely gentle. “The moment anyone mentions you may need help, or that you’re at anything less than your best, you turn defensive and angry. No one’s _judging_ you for not being perfect.”

“Yes, they _are!”_ Revan’s voice cracks on the words and she forces herself all the way upright, a wave of some indefinable emotion surging through her - anger, frustration, she’s not even sure what all else. “You don’t _understand,_ neither of you do. I’m _Revan.”_ Malak is just looking at her like he thinks this is just a matter of her pride and Bastila’s frowning and confused, and she clenches her jaw and crosses the medbay in two quick and painful strides, yanks her mask out of Malak’s hands and holds it up. “I’m the Supreme Commander of the Republic military. I’m a Jedi Knight. I killed Mandalore the Ultimate, I won the Mandalorian Wars. I’m not a _person_ to the galaxy, not really - I’m a Force-damned _legend._ I’m a mask. If I’m _weak,_ in any way, they all see it, and it _scares them.”_

“Revan-” Malak starts, and she glares at him furiously.

“Don’t even _start,”_ she snaps. “You have no idea what it’s like, not properly. They look up to you, but I’m their _hero._ And you know how morale works. So I can’t be weak, I can’t be hurt, I can’t _feel.”_ Her voice is starting to shake and she _hates_ it, doesn’t understand why. “I can’t hesitate, I can’t be afraid, I can’t be anything less than utterly confident. I don’t have the luxury of being a human being anymore.” She turns the mask over in her hands, stares into the blankness of it, solid and hard and unyielding, the painted patterns more familiar to her than her own face. “The mask is who I _am._ Revan, savior of the galaxy,” and she lifts the mask to her face and fits it on, the metal like a second skin after so long.

It’s enough of the truth she thinks they’ll understand - and it _is_ true. Revan is no longer a name, a person; Revan is a _title,_ and even if she ever were to take off the mask, she’d never be able to use her name around anyone. They’d know her the moment she did and then they’d _look_ at her the way her officers do, the way the common soldiers do, the way the Revanchists do, like she’s their savior, like she can solve anything, save anyone, and she wouldn’t have a mask to hide behind. So she can’t take off the mask, and she can’t be weak, because she has to be able to live up to their expectations. She has to be able to be their savior.

“Oh, Revan,” Bastila says softly, and Revan _hates_ the emotion in the younger Jedi’s voice, hates how it feels like pity. “We aren’t your soldiers, you realize that, right? I don’t need you to be anything other than you are.”

“You say that because you don’t know what I am,” Revan says, harshly. Her hands are shaking.

Bastila takes a step forward, reaches up to take Revan’s mask in her hands and pull it off. Revan can’t quite manage to stop her. “Then show me,” she says, eyes alight. 

_Be careful-_ Malak starts, leaning forward from where he’s still leaning against the bunk. Revan ignores him, draws up enough shields to muffle his mental voice, stares into Bastila’s grey eyes.

“You want to see what I am?” she asks, barely a whisper, an edge to her voice anyway, something nearly commanding. “Drop your shields.”

And she reaches out into the Force with the full weight of her presence, latches onto Bastila’s mind, and _pushes._

_She’s six years old, sprinting through the Coruscant Temple hallways, Alek hot on her heels; they’d snuck into the kitchens and stolen pocketfuls of sweets, had gotten caught on their way out. There’s a hiding place she recently discovered, high up in the masters’ tower, where they can climb onto a balcony not visible from inside and split up their haul without the cooks catching them, and she’s leading Alek to it when she goes careening around a corner and there’s a flash of brown before she’s crashing into someone’s legs, staggering back and landing painfully on her tailbone._

_Master Vrook is standing there, and he sneers down his thin nose at her. “Youngling,” he says, and his voice drips with an emotion she can’t recognize, not yet. (Later, she’ll realize it’s derision, bordering on anger, but by then he hates her and she dreams of shouting at him in front of the rest of the Council.) “Hardly appropriate behavior for a would-be Jedi.” Before she can even apologize, he turns on his heel and storms away, and for a moment all she can do is stare._

_“Let’s go, Rev, before they catch us,” Alek says, tugging on her hand, and she lets him lead her along, but all the joy is gone now. She wants to be a good Jedi. She’ll prove that she_ is, _and all the masters will see it. They have to._

_She’s eight and today the younglings had a mock-saber tournament. They all only know the Shii-Cho katas, of course, except for the oldest younglings who are preparing to take their padawan trials, but she’s been sneaking down to the training salles, crawling through the ventilation shafts, and she’s studied the padawans as they practiced. She’s gripped the short, lightweight training saber in both her small hands and practiced their drills from memory, half the time forcing Alek to fight against her until they’re both sweaty and bruised._

_Because this is supposed to be fun, but there will be masters there. Maybe even some of the Council. They’ll be looking to pick out padawans, and she will be the best._

_Her first three fights are easy, she doesn’t even have to use the tricks she taught herself to win; she’s always been the best for her age group. But then they say she’s done. She’s done well, the weapons master says, she should go take a break and watch the older group finish up._

_“I deserve to fight with them,” she says, because the masters haven’t even been looking at her fights. They’re here, a lot of them, even Master Vrook, who thinks she isn’t worthy to be a Jedi, who thinks she isn’t good enough. She has to_ show them _that she is. “I’m better than everyone else.”_

_“Youngling,” the master says gently, “they’re all larger and stronger than you, and they know more forms. This isn’t about your skill - you’re just not ready.”_

_“Yes I am!” She grabs her training saber tightly by the hilt, looks back over at the dueling ring set up for the older younglings. One of them has just lost, is walking away with a slump to his shoulders. “Let me fight him. If I win, you let me join the older ones.”_

_The master agrees, reluctantly. It’s clear he expects her to lose._

_She wins. And she wins two more fights before she’s put up against the youngling who’s won every other match, who was going to be crowned the winner before she forced her way into the bracket. He’s twelve and nearly twice her size, with a proper training saber, and he laughs a little when she walks into the ring and determinedly steps into the opening stance._

_“You’re too young for this,” he says. “You should go back, I don’t want to accidentally hurt you.”_

_Everyone is watching, even Master Vrook. Revan can feel their gazes on her, the sharp interest and confusion and concern and surprise in all their Force-signatures. She will prove herself to them. “You won’t touch me,” she says. “I’m better than you.”_

_She’s watched him fight. He knows more than just Shii-Cho, but so does she._

_She uses all the forms she taught herself as they fight. She can hear the murmuring in the watching crowd - which is full of her fellow younglings and even some padawans, now that the rest of the tournament is over - when she switches from Shii-Cho to something she’s pretty sure is Ataru, then to Makashi, then a few seconds of Soresu defense before she’s back in the familiar form she’s supposed to know. The youngling she’s fighting doesn’t know how to keep up with the form changes. This isn’t how practice duels are supposed to go, but outside the Temple, when she’s a knight, people aren’t going to follow the rules of the dueling ring._

_She’s fast and she’s better than him but he’s strong, so much stronger than her, and she missteps on a block she’s not as familiar with and he manages to hit her hands with his training saber, knock hers out of her hand. The weapons master is already stepping forward, but Revan backs away, glances to one side to see where her saber landed._

_“A good fight, younglings, but we have a winner-”_

_“I’m not done!” Revan shouts. The applause that started falls silent as a shocked hush descends on the room. The boy she’s facing just stares at her. “Come on,” she challenges, “attack me.”_

_There’s a pause. He looks at the weapons master, then back at her, and she smiles sweetly. “Afraid of an eight year old?” she asks him._

_The boy charges. Revan stands perfectly still until he’s almost on her (notices the weapons master moving to intervene; he’s calling out for them to stop, but she doesn’t care), then darts to the side, ducks under his raised saber and hooks her foot around his ankle. He stumbles and she spins, calls on the Force and focuses and_ pushes, _and he hits the ground hard on his back. She scoops her saber off the ground, and then before he can get up she’s dropping to sit on the boy’s chest, with her saber at his face._

_“That’s enough!” the weapons master calls. “This is not acceptable behavior for a Jedi youngling.” He grabs her by the shoulder and pulls her off the boy, and there’s other Jedi coming out to check on him, as though there’s anything wrong with him other than a bruise and his pride. He hit her hands harder than he hit the ground. “You are disqualified, Revan.”_

_“But I won,” she says, staring up at him. “Real fights don’t end when you get disarmed, I’ve seen the holos.”_

_“I am not discussing this with you right now. You are disqualified, and we will discuss your behavior in private shortly.”_

_And as he escorts her out, Revan glances up into the watching Jedi and sees Master Vrook, eyes narrow and trained on her, that same sharp dislike written all over his face._

_She’s nine and Master Vrook is sneering at her as she wanders the halls of the Jedi Enclave on Dantooine, already hating the confining walls and the dried grass meditation mats. “This is my Enclave, youngling,” he tells her. “You won’t have the same freedom to misbehave as you’re used to.”_

_Alek nudges her in the side after Vrook’s gone. “We’ll put frogs in his bed,” he promises, grinning brightly, and it feels a little less like she’s trapped._

_She’s nine, ten, eleven, and she’s called to the Council chambers, seed pods stuck to her tunic and twigs in her hair and mud on her face and grass stains on her knees, and Vrook lectures her for her pride, for her arrogance, for the way she punched a padawan who insulted Alek, for the way she disappears out into the grasslands for hours instead of showing up for meditation, for the way she continues to break the rules every time she spars with her peers. Vrook yells at her for leaving frogs in his bed and for Alek dumping water on his head and for “practicing her control” by helping Alek drop rocks and branches in front of visiting Jedi so they constantly stumble._

_“You do not act like a Jedi should,” Vrook says, and she sits on a stool, kicking her feet restlessly against the durasteel legs, and imagines him getting so angry steam pours out his ears. “If you want to be a Jedi, youngling,” and he snarls the word like it’s a curse and she hates, hates, hates him, “you’ll have to do better than this.”_

_“I hate him,” she tells Alek later, laying on her stomach at the edge of a brook and letting the water rush through her fingers. Beside her, Alek is drawing patterns in the mud with a stick. They’re skipping meditation again, but she doesn’t care. What are they going to do, assign her_ more _meditation? She already spends half her free days doing chores as punishment anyway._

_“At least he’s not still mad about the roof incident,” Alek says sagely, and she splashes him with water. “Hey, what was that for? I don’t want to get in trouble again for dirty robes.”_

_“You’re already in trouble, idiot. Might as well have fun before they come drag us back inside.”_

_Alek considers this for a moment. “I bet you can’t ride a kath hound,” he says, and she sits up to look at him._

_“We aren’t supposed to go near the kath hounds, you know they’re dangerous to the padawans.” But there’s something stirring in her chest, bright and eager._

_Her best friend grins at her. “Scared, Rev?” he asks. There’s a challenge in his eyes._

_“Never,” she declares, shoves to her feet. “I bet you I can stand on one.”_

_“Don’t be stupid, that’s not possible.”_

_“If I can’t, I’ll do all your chores for the next week, but if I_ can, _you have to do all of mine.”_

_“Deal.”_

_She breaks her arm. But she manages it. And the disbelief on Alek’s face is worth the lecture and the pain._

_She’s twelve when they call her and Alek to go through the padawan trials. They take a ship to Ilum and she spends the entire week and a half in hyperspace arguing with Alek about what color lightsabers they’ll have, the guesses getting wilder and wilder with each day._

_But it’s hard to remember that laughter when she’s alone in the freezing cold caves, with nothing but the whispers in the Force for company, Alek gone off on his own because they both knew they couldn’t do this together. She’s alone and it feels like she’s been here for ages and what if she gets lost, what if she can’t find a crystal, what if she gets trapped inside the cave, what if she_ fails _and they all realize she’s not good enough._

_“You are no Jedi,” Vrook’s voice says, echoes around her head, and she flinches and presses against the wall. “You don’t deserve this - you’re far too arrogant and proud, and your anger controls you.”_

_She can almost see him, standing in front of her, eyes blazing, looking down his nose at her like he always does, and then there’s Alek standing at his side, a padawan braid by his ear and a proper lightsaber hilt on his belt. “My master is right,” he sneers at her. “You’re always so angry, Revan. Remember when you hit that padawan?”_

_“He was insulting you!” Revan cries, and Alek rolls his eyes._

_“Do you really think I want or need you to protect me?” he asks. “You’re pathetic.”_

_No. No. No! Revan screams, and the Force rushes to her, and she squeezes her eyes shut and pushes and pushes and pushes until she can’t anymore._

_When she opens her eyes, Vrook and Alek are gone._

_Revan knows how the Gathering works. She’s only supposed to find one kyber crystal in the caves._

_When she leaves Ilum, she has two._

_She’s fourteen and standing in a training salle in the Temple on Coruscant; Master Kae is away for a few days, and Alek’s supposed to get back tomorrow. She hasn’t seen him in almost two months and she’s missed him more than she thought possible._

_Her violet lightsaber glows in front of her as she whirls through the steps of the Niman katas; it’s the base for Jar’kai, and while her second lightsaber is crafted, Master Kae doesn’t let her use it, only lets her keep it on her belt in case she gets disarmed. “I won’t have my padawan cutting her arm off because she isn’t prepared for the most complex lightsaber form,” she’d said._

_Revan, naturally, doesn’t care._

_She finishes the kata and takes a deep breath, and then reaches to her belt and unclips her second lightsaber - full-length, not a shoto like most Jar’kai users - and gives herself a moment to settle both hilts in her hands before she ignites the second one. The blade is a bright silver-white._

_Every time her fellow Jedi see her lightsaber colors, they look at her a little differently, and they whisper. She knows they think she’s not a proper Jedi, that she strays too close to the Dark Side, but Revan is going to prove them all wrong. She loves the uniqueness of her sabers, loves the way the kyber crystals within sing to her, and she doesn’t care if people look at her violet blade and call her Dark. She’s going to be the strongest Jedi Knight, she’s going to make Master Kae proud, she’s going to prove to Vrook that she deserves this._

_Revan reaches into the Force to center herself and slides into the first stance of the opening Jar’kai kata. She_ will _master this._

_She has to._

_She’s sixteen, and she’s sitting on the roof of the Temple, staring out at Coruscant, the wind in her braided hair, her cloak tugged around her shoulders. She’s only just gotten back onworld, but she’d disappeared to climb up here - her favorite spot to hide away from everyone else - without even telling Alek she was home._

_She’s always liked high places. There’s something freeing about the wind and the way she’s so close to the edge. Whenever she needs to think, she climbs up here, lets the distant buzz of trillions of people soothe her frazzled nerves and calm her racing mind._

_Alek finds her after a while, as he always does; he drops down to sit next to her and unceremoniously wraps an arm around her shoulders and tugs her against him. She lays her head on his shoulder and leans her forehead against the side of his neck and just lets his warm solidity be a comfort._

_“Bad mission?” he asks quietly. She’s sure he can already tell; the Force moves strangely between them, these days, and she always knows what he’s feeling, almost always knows his thoughts too._

_“I killed someone,” Revan says. She keeps seeing it on repeat in her mind’s eye: she’d lunged forward, used the Force to shove the slaver away from the young girl by his side, and one saber had cut through his blaster. She should’ve stopped there. A proper Jedi would’ve stopped there - he was disarmed, they could’ve taken him captive, tried him and sentenced him. But she didn’t stop; before the melted half of his blaster could hit the ground, she sliced her second saber through his neck, like she’s done a hundred, a thousand times on a training droid. It’d felt the same, too, except for the way the Force had shifted and his presence had blinked out._

_She’d thrown up, after. Master Kae had held back her hair, rubbed her back, and promised her she was proud of her for protecting that girl, for standing up for her beliefs._

_“A slaver,” Alek says. She nods. “Did he deserve it? Was it worth it?”_

_“Yeah,” she says quietly. “The things he was doing to those children - he had to be stopped. And the girl was so close to him, he could’ve grabbed her and used her as a shield if I’d left him alive. But- Jedi are supposed to capture people, not kill them.”_

_“We can’t always capture people,” her best friend says, tightens his arm around her a little. “Isn’t it more important to kill someone and save lives than to risk them hurting more people?”_

_He’s right. Revan lets him feel that, smiles a little although he can’t see it. “Master Kae was proud,” she says. “Vrook wasn’t, when we made our report, but I don’t think there’s anything I can do to make him happy.”_

_“Probably not, I think he hates you.”_

_“What a hypocrite,” she mutters._

_She no longer wants to prove to Vrook that she’s worthy to be a Jedi; now, she wants to prove that she’s a better Jedi than he is. She thinks she’ll succeed. After all, she saved almost fifty children today, all on her own, and when’s the last time Vrook even took a field mission?_

_So she had to kill someone to save those children. Alek’s right. It’s worth the death, the bloodstains on her hands._

_If she has to, she knows now, she can do it again._

_She’s eighteen when the Jedi High Council names her a master of Jar’kai, the youngest ever. She’s been spending hours in the salles every day since she first crafted her lightsabers, in the hopes that they’d see her progress; she’s always been the best duelist in her peer group, ever since she was eight years old and beating the oldest younglings. Now, they’re finally acknowledging her skills._

_“You’ve become a powerful and skilled Jedi, young padawan,” Vandar says, and Revan bows her head in thanks. “But do not forget, there is never an end to learning, and becoming a master in something just means it will take twice the work to improve.”_

_“I’ll remember, Master,” she says, and she looks over at Vrook, sitting in his chair. He’s the only one who’d tried to argue._ What precedent would it set, to allow someone so young, still a padawan, to be named a weapons master? _he’d asked._

_She knows why he asked. It’s not that he doesn’t think she’s good enough; it’s because he hates her. He always has, since she was a child. But she won’t let his ridiculous bias against her stop her from becoming the Jedi she’s meant to be, the Jedi her master knows she can be._

_Master Kae believes Revan is going to save the Republic. Revan won’t let her down._

_She’s nineteen when they knight her, in the Council chambers overlooking the rest of Coruscant, Alek by her side. It’s discouraged, but she hugs her master after her padawan braid is severed._

_“Thank you,” she whispers into Arren Kae’s ear. The older woman just smiles._

_“I’m proud of you, Revan,” she says._

_“I’ll never forget what you’ve taught me, master,” Revan promises._

_That night she and Alek steal a speeder and fly across half of Coruscant at nigh-dangerous speeds, drawing half of Coruscant Law Enforcement into a chase with them. Alek’s arms are warm around her waist and he’s laughing in her ear and when she glances back over her shoulder to look at him, there’s something bright and free in his eyes. He’s been looking at her differently lately, she’s noticed, but she dismisses it when he gives her a wide smile._

_“Over there,” he says, puts his hand over hers on the speeder bike’s handles and tugging it into a sharp turn into a nearby alley. She doesn’t have a chance to brake first, and they nearly slam into a building before she gets control back and brings the bike to a shuddering stop, deep within the canyon between two towering skyscrapers. She flicks off the lights and watches, Alek’s hand still over hers and his chest snug against her back, as the police speed past their hiding place without even slowing down._

_“Nice catch,” she says to him quietly, and her cheeks ache from smiling. For a moment, she wishes she could capture this evening and live in it forever; just the wind against her face and Alek at her back, the two of them laughing and free._

_She’s twenty-one and the Republic is preparing to go to war. The Mandalorians have been attacking the Outer Rim and killing settlements and colonies and worlds for years now, but the Republic hasn't done much other than to increase ship production and recruitment drives and to set up a defense cordon near the furthest planets the Mandalorians have conquered. But all that changes when Taris is attacked._

_Taris is a major source of income, and nearly as populated as Coruscant, and the Mandalorians barely even have to fight to take it. They’re far more of a threat than anyone realized; they’re organized, and powerful, and dangerous, and they manage to win even when they’re outnumbered two to one, and they could bring the Republic to its knees if left unchecked._

_And the Jedi Council doesn’t plan to help._

_Revan thinks maybe they just don’t understand how dire the threat is; she and Alek talk, quietly, to the other Jedi, find others who agree that something needs to be done. They swore to protect the Republic when they were knighted, after all, and Revan takes that oath seriously. She’s sure the Jedi Council will too, if she can just show them how much of a threat the Mandalorians are. The Force is begging her to help and Master Kae thought she was meant to save the Republic and what else could that mean?_

_So she takes a few Jedi and Alek, and they go to Cathar._

_Cathar has been empty for nearly a decade, most of the species simply gone. No one knows what happened, exactly._

_But Revan has a gift for psychometry. And when Revan follows a trail of bleached-white bones into a sea, when she reaches into the water and pulls out a red and black beskar mask, she sees it, she_ feels _it, as the Cathar are herded into the ocean and killed mercilessly. She sees it as one Mandalorian stands up and objects to the slaughter, and is killed along with those she tries to protect._

_“I won’t rest until the Mandalorians are brought to justice for this,” she shouts, snarls the words at the ghosts of the past. “I won’t take off this mask until I’ve avenged the warrior who wore it and all the innocent people massacred here. So swears Revan!”_

_“Who will follow us?” Alek calls, as she fits the mask to her face. It fits perfectly, like it was made for her. “We’ll bring this to the Jedi Council, but if they continue to refuse to act, who here is willing to go to war anyway?”_

_“The dead deserve justice,” Revan says, and her voice sounds strange through the vocoder._

_It sounds_ right.

_She is twenty-two years old when she’s finally ready to go to war. The Council has refused to act on what she found on Cathar. She and Alek have been recruiting, and it’s with just over a hundred Jedi at her heels that she storms into the Supreme Chancellor’s office and signs up for the military._

_“My name is Jedi Knight Revan,” she tells Tol Cressa. She’s wearing the mask, and though she’s in her usual bastardized robes, she has a cloak and scattered pieces of the best armor she could find, and her hood is up, covering her hair. “This is Jedi Knight Alek Squinquargesimus,” and Alek glares at her, nudges her through the Force. “I have one hundred and three Jedi Knights and padawans who follow me, who take their oaths to the Republic seriously. We want to enlist. We want to fight the Mandalorians.”_

_The Chancellor looks at her thoughtfully for a long moment, and she can read the warring mix of confusion, uncertainty, and relief on his face. “How old are you, Knight Revan?” he asks quietly. “Do you have the authority to speak on their behalf?”_

_Revan pushes her shoulders back and lifts her chin. “I’m twenty-two,” she says, and sees something pained cross his face. “I was named a Jedi weapons master at eighteen, the youngest in our history. I’m the one who discovered what happened on Cathar. The Council has given me no authority, but I don’t need anything from them - the Jedi with me follow me, not the Council.”_

_“We’re the Revanchists,” Alek says abruptly, and she frowns - she hasn’t heard that name before now, but the Force hums around it like it’s pleased. “Revan is our leader, Chancellor Cressa. What she says goes for us all.”_

_The Chancellor sighs, then gives them both a smile. “Very well. Welcome to the fight, Jedi - we desperately need your help. I’ll have orders and commissions for you all in three days.”_

_She’s a Jedi General now, in charge of an entire capital ship, alongside Admiral Jenn, with Alek at her back and her new friend Qatya beside him. It only took one proper battle against the Mandalorians for people to begin to whisper about her, for the Chancellor to put her in command. “You seem to have a gift for tactics,” he’d told her. “We need that.”_

_They’re in the far Outer Rim, for the most part, fighting space skirmishes with the Mandalorians. The Mandalorian Triumph is still going strong; even with Jedi aid, the Republic hasn’t been able to stop Mandalore the Ultimate or his top general, Cassus Fett._

_Revan will stop them. She will save the Republic, the millions of people dying every time the Mandalorians take another planet. The Force screams with their deaths and she is angry, and she can’t stop seeing the memories of Cathar in her head when she sleeps and when she meditates._

_For all those dead, for the Mandalorian whose mask she took, Revan will win this war._

_She’s heralded by the Senate and the rest of the army as the best tactician in the Republic by six months into the war. Admiral Jenn never questions her orders anymore, except to point out better openings._

_She doesn’t question Revan at Thustra._

_Half the civilians are dead by the time Revan’s army makes landfall. Those who are left have mostly fled from the capital city, Ixale, but there are still civilians there, and the place is full of frozen snapshots of their lives: storefronts and houses and decorated streets and pets running loose. Fighting in the streets as darkness falls should be where Revan is best, with the Jedi she has with her, but her small squads keep getting picked off, and she can’t take the city properly._

_She figures out why when she gets a comm from Qatya, who’s set up in the center of the city monitoring comms and scanners and in constant contact with the_ Vengeance _above them._ “Cassus Fett is here, Revan,” _the younger Jedi says._

_Fett. Mandalore’s best._

_They can’t take the city. They’re losing too many, and soon enough Fett will be able to just pick them all off one by one._

_So Revan makes a choice._

_Late in the_ Vengeance’s _night cycle, she stands in her room, the sight of a city being bombed to dust in her mind, and stares into the blank visor of her mask in the mirror. “Sacrifices are necessary in war,” she whispers to herself, over and over again, hands so tight around the sink the durasteel cuts into them. She is twenty-two years old and today she ordered the orbital bombardment of a city she’d pulled her troops out of so the Mandalorians would take it. Today she destroyed the livelihoods of hundreds of thousands of innocent civilians, the same people she went to war to save._

 _Alek’s words from six years ago, on a rooftop after she’d just killed for the first time, echo through her mind._ Isn’t it more important to kill someone and save lives than to risk them hurting more people?

_What was this, then, but a larger scale of that same logic? Only a few civilians died today. Most of the casualties came from Fett’s forces. Once she pulled out, not a single soldier of hers died._

_The numbers say she won a great victory. The Chancellor says the same._

_“Sacrifices are necessary in war,” Revan tells herself, and she accepts the praise._

_She’s twenty-three and she’s standing in the Senate tower, Alek and Qatya at her side, as the Chancellor makes a speech. She saved the shipyards of Duro singlehandedly last week. The battle had begun before she ever got there, and she’d been too late to save the planet itself, but she’d cut off the Mandalorians before they could fortify their position._

_The planet was already half-destroyed, she tells herself, as the Chancellor talks about her heroic courage and her will to do what must be done. There’s nothing else she could’ve done to save it, and so she rained more destruction down on it._

_Alek and Qatya are promoted to general, and she congratulates them, means it sincerely. Alek is Alek, and Qatya is one of the only people who Revan takes her mask off around, one of the only people who can be trusted with the person Revan is when she isn’t a general. The three of them work together to run the_ Vengeance _and several other smaller ships, their own little portion of the fleet, and they’ve become the ones the Mandalorians call for on the battlefield._

_Then the Chancellor turns to Revan._

_“For your many victories, your strategic brilliance, your unwavering loyalty and unfaltering command, General Revan, I promote you to Supreme Commander of the Republic military.”_

_She’d known she was getting a promotion, how could she not? But this…_

_Supreme Commander. She’s no longer just in command of one capital ship and the smaller units that follow, but the entire fleet. The whole war is hers to run. If they lose, now, it’s because of her._

_Revan will not fail. She can’t. She has to win this war, for all the lives she’s sacrificed for her victories._

_“Thank you, Supreme Chancellor,” she says. The mask evens out her voice enough she knows no one can tell what she’s feeling. “Your faith in me won’t be misplaced.”_

_She’s twenty-three and she and Alek are leading a strike team on the surface of Lantilles while Qatya and Admiral Jenn run the battle in space. Cassus Fett is here again, and Revan is really starting to hate him and his shiny gold beskar and the way she can never quite catch up to him. That will change today, she’s sure of it._

_Half her strike team is gone by the time she makes it inside Fett’s command center. Her intelligence placed him here with the rest of his officers at the time her fleet came out of hyperspace, and today she’s going to kill him. Lantilles is a massive planet, with a large population, and Revan won’t let Fett destroy and subjugate them like he’s done so many other places._

_Their defenses here are so thick she knows her intelligence was right. She and Alek and three Jedi carve a bloody path through a base full of beskar-clad warriors - most with nearly full suits, not the piecemeal armor most of the foot soldiers have - and victory is so close Revan can taste it._

_She bursts through a door and on the other side is what’s clearly the command hub for this entire battle. The room is strewn with computers and screens and scanners, partially-armored technicians with headsets on and five warriors in full beskar and, in the very center of it all, a familiar gold flash. Cassus Fett himself._

_For a moment no one moves, and then Revan hurls herself forward and drags her lightsabers through three technicians all at once. And the room devolves into chaos._

_When the smoke clears, the technicians are dead, most of their equipment slagged, and it’s Cassus Fett and two beskar-wearing warriors against her and Alek. Fett isn’t wearing his helmet and he’s smiling at her._

_“I was hoping I’d get a chance to test myself against you today, Revan,” he says, and behind her mask she’s snarling. “Let’s see what you’re capable of.”_

_She lunges at him before he can even get out his weapons._

_For a long time, too long, there’s nothing but the rush of combat; Fett knows how to fight a Jedi and he’s been studying her, and they’re disturbingly well-matched. Behind her, in front of her, all around her, Alek is dueling the other two warriors, and she can feel his flash of satisfaction when one falls, then the other - the Force has only grown thicker between them as the war goes on. Fett is good, but he doesn’t have the Force, and now it’s two on one and he’s starting to tire._

_Fett is going to die today. Revan knows it, deep in her bones._

_There’s blood dripping from a shallow cut on Alek’s face, staining his teeth red as he smiles and falls in next to Revan, saber up; Fett’s disengaged, for a moment. “I’d say we’re capable of a hell of a lot more than you,” her best friend says, and she loves him for it._

_“That depends,” Fett says, circling a little to his right. “You’ve certainly shown me your weaknesses today.”_

_Revan snarls a little, tension coiling in her muscles, ready to spring. “What, exactly, does it depend on?” she snaps. She’s shown Fett no weaknesses, only strength, what is he talking about?_

_Fett smiles. “On you, Revan, and how you react to this.”_

_His blasters move. Revan is already shifting to deflect them._

_And then beside her, Alek cries out, and the Force explodes with his pain._

_Alek’s knees buckle and his saber falls from his hands and he hits the floor and no, no, Fett is chuckling and starting to back away, and Revan_ shouts.

 _“You filthy_ coward!”

_And the Force wraps around her and she’s flinging all the strength within her at Fett and that gold armor and that cocky smirk, and the wall behind him shatters as he’s hurled through it._

_She can’t care. She hangs her sabers on her belt with shaking hands and drops to her knees by Alek, already furiously comming for a medevac, and she pulls away the charred robes to stare at the two wounds in his stomach. He’s breathing, and he’s conscious, but only barely, and the Force is so full of his pain and Alek is her best friend, her second-in-command, her right hand. She can’t lose him. He’s the one who stood by her no matter what accusations Vrook threw her way, who followed her when she shouted at the Council and stormed out._

_She_ won’t _lose him._

_Revan’s made sacrifices in this war, too many now to see them all when she sleeps. Alek will never be one of them. She refuses to let him be one of them._

_And for what he’s done today, to her, to her best friend, Fett will die, and the rest of the Mandalorians with them. She will crush them into dust._

_So swears Revan._

_She’s little more than a legend behind a mask by the time she sets foot on Taris. Alek is healed and her fleet stronger than before and Revan is ready to win this war in earnest. She’s tired of being on the defense, of responding to the Mandalorians’ attacks and letting them set the terms of their engagements. No more. She is Revan, the Supreme Commander, the one the Mandalorians fear and love in equal measures. She is Revan, who Arren Kae thought is destined to save the Republic._

_She is Revan, and it’s time for her to go on the offensive._

_The war properly began on Taris. It feels like an apt place for Revan to begin her own proper war, her crusade against Mandalore and Fett. They’ve held Taris for so long they’ve gotten lazy, sent parts of their defending fleet away; they don’t expect an attack here, in the heart of territory they claimed two years ago._

_When Revan’s fleet comes out of hyperspace, utterly unannounced - her own army hadn’t known where they were bound, to keep the secrecy - the total chaos is beautiful to behold._

_She retakes Taris for the Republic. She stands in the chaos of a shattered slave market and smiles behind her mask as her soldiers, as the Jedi with her, break open cages and collars. Among the freed slaves is a young Cathar girl with wide golden eyes who stares at Revan with such pure, open admiration Revan almost can’t look at her._

_“You saved me,” the young girl says quietly. “I will never forget this. Thank you.”_

That’s why I went to war, _Revan could tell her._ To save people like you. To avenge your fallen people. _And it would be true._

_But Revan has far more to worry about now than her promise to the ghosts of the Cathar long dead. Mandalore the Ultimate and Cassus Fett are not ghosts, are all-too-real, and they have to die._

_So she nods, once, at the girl, and turns on her heel and strides from the slave market with her hands behind her back, making for a nearby shuttle. She has plans to make._

_She’s twenty-four and swearing at the newest intel reports in her hands. The Obliss sector wasn’t part of her plans - Fleet Admiral Karath is supposed to handle the defense with nearly half the fleet she’d given him to command - but she’s closer than he is, far closer after her victory at Stenos._

_So she sighs and orders the_ Vengeance _to drop out of hyperspace and change hyperlanes._

_Alek is supposed to be by her side, as he always is, but as they approach Clefar - where a good portion of the Mandalorians’ forces are preparing to lay siege - a new intel report comes in, of a scouting force elsewhere in the sector, a small one preparing to meet up with the main fleet to pass over information._

_“We have to stop them,” Alek tells her, pushes his firm sincerity through the Force to her. “You need Qatya to help manage your secondary fronts, and don’t even try to tell me I’m wrong. Let me take some ships and destroy the scouting party while you engage the fleet.”_

_She_ hates _the idea of Alek going off on his own, but he’s a good tactician in his own right, and from what her spies are saying the scouting party’s been surveying, she can’t afford to let them meet back up with the Mandalorian fleet. And he’s right, she needs Qatya - the other Jedi is scarily good at managing a staggering number of fronts at once - and he’s the only one she trusts, completely and utterly. So she agrees, sends him off with one capital ship and its retinue, and loses herself in strategy._

_The fleet around Clefar is too small, for a fleet attacking a planet known for its rich cortosis deposits. Something about this seems wrong. The Force is twisting a discordant jangle around her and she knows Qatya feels the same thing, but she can’t pinpoint why._

_She’s in a private briefing room with Jenn, Alek on the holo updating them on his progress - he’s successfully engaged the scouting party and is going to win - when he goes pale and his eyes go wide. “Oh_ shit,” _he says, “that’s Fett’s flagship-”_

_And then there’s a burst of static and his projection cuts out. Jammers._

_Revan shares a look with Jenn. “Supreme Commander-”_

_“Order the retreat,” Revan says. She can’t lose Alek. He’s hers, the only thing she won’t sacrifice, and Fett is_ there _and she has to get there, now. “Let the Mandalorians take Clefar, we’re going after Fett.”_

 _Her hands clench around the holotable so tightly they ache. Alek is in danger and the Force shrieks that knowledge at her - if she doesn’t go to him,_ now, _he’s going to die._

_She won’t let that happen._

_“He’s giving us an opportunity,” Jenn says quietly, meeting Revan’s eyes through the mask. “With Fett and, presumably, the rest of his fleet occupied by General Alek, we have a chance to take control of Clefar and, from it, the rest of the sector.”_

_“I don’t care,” Revan says. “Order the retreat.” Her voice is shaking and she thinks Jenn must be able to hear it, must be able to see the electric panic in her veins despite the mask and the armor and the cloak._

_“Respectfully, Supreme Commander, but I can’t do that. If it was any other Jedi out there right now, this wouldn’t even be a conversation; you’d take those odds in a heartbeat, and so would I. If it was any other Jedi-”_

_“But it’s not,” Revan snaps, and she barely recognizes her own voice. “It’s Alek, and I won’t abandon him. Now_ order the retreat, _Admiral. That’s a direct order from your Supreme Commander.”_

_Jenn presses her lips together, her face going blank and taut. “Yes, sir,” she says, and there’s something icy in her voice. “As you command.” And she turns and strides from the briefing room, tense and controlled._

_Revan doesn’t care. Revan_ can’t _care. She stares at the holotable where Alek’s projection had been just moments before and pleads with the Force for enough time._

_She will not sacrifice Alek for her victory. There is nothing in the galaxy worth his death._

_She’s twenty-five years old and she is winning the war._

_Mandalore has all but stopped attacking the Republic as Karath’s half of the fleet drives him back. Fett and Mandalore themselves have been coordinating defense over all the planets they’ve captured; the war is going to end soon, and Revan already knows how she’ll end it. Her victory weapon is being built._

_But to end the war, she must take Onderon, and she must take Dxun._

_Chancellor Cressa had been very quiet when Revan had told him about it. The Mandalorians have been entrenched on Dxun for a decade; attacking here is nearly as suicidal as attacking their home planet itself. Revan knows she will lose over half her army today - making the end of the war that much more of a necessity - and she’d told the Chancellor as much when she’d told him she had to strike here if the war was ever going to truly end._

_“If we don’t take Dxun,” she’d said, “the Mandalorians will just fall back here and regroup, no matter how many times we destroy them. They’ll raise up new leaders and they’ll continue to raze our worlds. Besides, Onderon asked us for aid, and we can’t deny them.”_

_“Do what you have to,” Cressa had said tiredly, closing his eyes. “You know I trust your judgement, Revan. Just make it worth it. Bring me home a victory.”_

_Revan can do that. It’s the only thing she’s certain of anymore. She can win. She_ will _win._

 _But standing on the bridge of the_ Vengeance, _staring at her projections of Dxun and Onderon, the defenses the Mandalorians have set up, a little of that certainty fades. She’s sending both Qatya and Alek to Dxun with the majority of her army, and she’s taking a few companies and a strike team down to Iziz at the same time - splitting her forces is a risky move when Dxun is so fortified, but she knows they won’t be expecting her to be anywhere other than at Alek’s side. They won’t be expecting her to attack two places at once._

_They won’t be expecting it, and so she’ll be able to take Iziz out from under them, and in their desperation to take it back, they’ll divert forces from Dxun, giving Alek and Qatya a better chance._

_She knows it will work. But for a moment, as she opens her mouth to give the orders to send half her army to their deaths, the words shrivel and die in her throat, choking her._

_What is she doing?_

_She’s a Jedi, sworn to protect, to save. Jedi do not kill without reason. Jedi seek the peaceful solution to a problem wherever possible. Jedi only fight if they have no other option._

_Jedi do not order hundreds of thousands of deaths without blinking._

_Jedi do not bombard cities to crush their enemies._

_Jedi do not abandon entire planets to save one person._

_“If you go to war,” Vrook had said to her, a dangerous note in his voice, “you will not come back a Jedi.” She’d thought it a threat, back then. “Your anger and your pride will consume you.”_

_Vrook hates her. She’s known that for most of her life. But maybe, for once in his life, he wasn’t just furthering his vendetta against her._

You will not come back a Jedi.

_There is no emotion, there is peace._

_Revan will not feel peace as long as the Mandalorians live, as long as Cassus Fett laughs and says_ you've certainly shown me your weaknesses today, _as long as Mandalore the Ultimate stands on his ships and orders worlds razed before she can retake them, as long as the Republic is in danger._

_There is no ignorance, there is knowledge._

_Revan cannot survive this war if she doesn’t blind herself to the darkness and the pain of it, so much of that pain pain she's caused, so much of that darkness her own, a darkness she can't let herself see or she might just drown in the depths of it._

_There is no passion, there is serenity._

_The fire burning in her heart, the anger, the sheer determination, the will to win - these are the things keeping her going, and without them, she is nothing._

_There is no chaos, there is harmony._

_In battle, once they make first contact with the enemy, the order of it all dissolves into shouting and blood and fear and pain and rage, nearly impossible to make sense of; when she steps into a fight the chaos of it becomes the heartbeat in her chest, the whirlpool of power she draws off of to fuel her victory._

_There is no death, there is the Force._

_Death walks in her wake, spills over from her shadow, lives in her bones and the lines of her mask and the kyber inside her sabers. Death exists, and it has a name, and its name is Revan._

You will not come back a Jedi, _Vrook says to her, the day she walks away from the Council for the last time._

 _Revan lifts her chin and stares down his image in her mind and says,_ I know.

_She’s twenty-five years old and she has just killed her master._

_Malachor was not supposed to happen like this. Malachor was supposed to kill the entire Mandalorian fleet. Malachor was supposed to be a victory._

_It did, and it was. But Arren Kae, the only Jedi Master Revan has ever trusted, ever loved, is dead. Arren Kae, the woman who stood before her and promised her she would save the Republic._

_Revan has won the war. She’s accepted unconditional surrender from the few Mandalorians who escaped the Mass Shadow Generator, and she’s accepted a whirlwind of congratulations and thanks from the Senate, from the Chancellor. She’s made her speech to them, to the galaxy._

_But a planet is gone, and Revan gave the order. Her master is gone, and Revan gave the order. Two thirds of her fleet is gone, and Revan gave the order._

_The Force screams in her head like twisting metal and shattering glass, and Revan gave the order._

_She stands on the empty bridge, staring out the viewscreen at the stars beyond, and closes her eyes and imagines she’s sitting on the roof of the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, the wind in her hair and her face bare and Alek beside her._

Was it worth it? _Alek’s seventeen-year-old ghost asks her._

It will be, _she tells him, and she stretches out into the Force, beyond the screaming, to the presence she’s sensed._ I’ll make it be.

_She’s a Jedi. She’s a Jedi. She’s a Jedi._

_Vitiate laughs in her mind and she hasn’t been able to feel Alek - Malak - in a week and the Dark is thick and close around her and she doesn’t know what’s real anymore. She doesn’t have her mask or her lightsabers or her armor to hide behind. Vitiate laughs and she huddles in the single point of light in her cell and clings to the only thing she knows is true._

_She’s a Jedi._

You’re more Sith than Jedi by now, _Vitiate says to her, and he’s in her head and she can’t keep him out._ It would be far better for you to accept it.

_But she won’t. She can’t. She’s supposed to save the Republic and she’s supposed to be a legend and she’s supposed to be the greatest Jedi to ever exist and she’s supposed to make her sacrifices worth it._

_The Mandalorians aren’t the only thing she has to save the Republic from._

_How can she do it? How can she keep going, decreeing who lives and who dies, deciding how much she’s willing to lose to win?_

Just give in, _Vitiate murmurs._ It will be so much easier if you let your hatred fuel you instead of your uncertainty.

_She’s Revan. She’s a Jedi. She’s the Supreme Commander. She’s a legend. She’s a mask._

_She cannot be uncertain - Vitiate is right about that._

_And if anger is all she has, beyond her uncertainty… she will use it._

_She’s running through the hallways of the Sith Citadel in stolen robes that feel more like her own than her Jedi ones and Malak is on his knees surrounded by Sith and she will not let Vitiate capture them again. She will not let anyone touch Malak again. She will not be weak again._

_She is Revan._

_No matter what she must do, she will save the galaxy, she will protect Malak, she will fight a war._

_And she will win._

_So swears Revan._

The _Defender’s_ medbay almost doesn’t feel real; it’s only the abrupt resurgence of the ache in her leg that grounds Revan in the here-and-now, that and the half-shielded bond pulsing between her and Malak. She has no idea how long it’s been - not more than a few minutes, she’s sure, but beyond that she doesn’t know.

Bastila sucks in a sharp, shaky breath and staggers back, catches the edge of the patient bunk behind her and sinks down to sit on it. Her already-pale skin is nearly chalky white and her grey eyes are wide with something like horror.

“Now you see,” Revan says quietly. Her hands are shaking. “That’s what I am, Bastila. Do you still pity me?”

Bastila is overwhelmed but she still lifts her head sharply at the words. “I’ve never pitied you, Revan,” she says, nearly vehemently. “I’ve _cared_ about you, and yes, I still do, though Force only knows why.”

She’s telling the truth. How does Revan know she’s telling the truth?

Oh.

It’s small, thin, like a strand of spider silk - a gossamer connection spun from the Force, tying their minds together. Nothing compared to the bond she shares with Malak, but a bond all the same, caused by Revan’s actions.

Malak had warned her to be careful. Maybe she should’ve listened.

“You asked me to do this,” is all Revan can manage to say. Carefully, she sets her hand on the kolto tank, eases herself down to sit again; her leg is burning and the shock of reliving half her life all at once has her nearly reeling.

“I’m not asking for a justification,” Bastila responds. She’s careful herself as she tosses Revan her mask back. “I just- I can’t react to this right now, I need time. I need- to process.”

It’s understandable. So Revan nods, and Bastila gets to her feet, and the younger Jedi leaves the room. Revan can sense how shaken she is.

It’s not until she’s gone that Malak speaks. “What did you do?” he asks quietly, expression somber. Revan drops the shields she’d thrown up, letting him into her mind again, and leans her head against the kolto tank as she tries to put the words together.

“I… showed her,” she says finally. 

“Showed her what?”

“Myself.” Revan closes her eyes. “Who I am. Starting with Vrook when we were kids and ending- well, now. She wanted to know.”

“You showed her your memories?” Malak is staring at her, she can feel the weight of his gaze. “Revan, that’s-”

“Stupid?”

“I was going to say dangerous, but stupid works too.”

She sighs. “I know, but- I needed her to understand. She didn’t understand and I _needed_ her to.”

There’s the sound of someone shifting, and then she opens her eyes to see Malak lowering himself to the ground next to her and opening his arms. She goes into them willingly. “Does this mean you’ll stop snapping whenever she finds out you aren’t perfect?” he asks, resting his chin on her head, and she makes an annoyed sound.

“Maybe.”

He sighs, but there’s a flicker of amusement across their bond. “I guess that’s the best answer I’m going to get, isn’t it?”

 _Yes, it is,_ she tells him silently, and he chuckles and tightens his arms around her. He still feels worn and off-kilter from earlier, and if she presses a little she can tell he’s trying not to think about the way he’d killed the Rakata or the rest of the compound. When he notices her looking, he gently nudges her back, puts up light shields around those thoughts, and she elbows his stomach but backs away from that part of his mind willingly. Force knows they both have things they don’t want to think or talk about, much less let the other know about.

(Revan thinks she probably has more of those than he does.)

For a while they just sit, but her leg is hurting more and more, and it’s getting later outside, and the kolto tank still isn’t fixed; Revan sighs and grumbles a little and pulls back, pushing her hair out of her face. Malak looks a little disappointed.

“I need to finish this,” she says, gesturing at the parts spread around her.

His eyes flicker to her leg for a moment before he nods, and then he stands and she expects him to leave, but he just crosses over to the patient bunk and swipes her cloak up from it and tosses it at her. She catches the bundle of fabric with a frown, sends him a sharp, questioning nudge. _What the hells?_

“If I’m going to help you with these repairs,” he says, not quite looking at her, something staining his cheeks red, “you’ll need to put on some clothes so I’m not just staring at you in my shirt.”

Oh. _Oh._

 _“That’s_ why you kept looking at me,” she blurts out in sudden realization. “I didn’t realize-” She stops, grins, slowly. This is new, but- she likes kissing him, after all, this isn’t exactly unwelcome. “I could take it off, would that help you focus?”

“Do _not,”_ Malak says emphatically, and she’s laughing as she pulls the cloak around her shoulders and settles in to get back to work.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhhhhhhhhhhjsdbgfjhdfgklSDLDKFGAKLDGJ
> 
> that's it that's my mood for this whole chapter
> 
> i hate it, it was the ACTUAL WORST to write, nothing happened like i planned, but it's fucking 6k words now and i'm tired of banging my head on it so here, have an update. now excuse me while i go scream

Qatya is in the middle of dinner in her sparse quarters - the cafeteria is uncomfortable at best with how the rest of the Jedi stare and avoid her, and at worst people start asking her questions about the war and Malachor and she really does not want to answer those - when her comm goes off. Given the distinctly short list of who even  _ has _ her personal comm frequency, she’s fairly sure it’s either Atris or someone unpleasant, and she sighs as she pulls out her personal holoprojector and sets it on the table, then answers the comm.

It’s not Atris, or the Jedi Council.

It’s Kavala Jenn.

“Admiral Jenn?” Qatya says, surprised, and the older woman smiles a little.

_ “General Petheir. It’s good to see you.” _

Jenn hasn’t changed much since Malachor. She looks a little more tired, the lines around her eyes and mouth deeper, but her dark brown hair is still pulled back into its customary tight bun and she’s still wearing her Republic fatigues. It’s- nice, really, to see that  _ someone _ is still how Qatya remembers her. “It’s good to see you too, Jenn. What’s the occasion?”

_ “I can’t just be comming the only sane commander I had?” _ Jenn looks amused, and there’s actually enough of a sparkle in her eye that Qatya figures things must be going alright, and she must be off-duty. The admiral has always been very careful about maintaining her professionality while she’s on-duty, but she has a tendency to loosen up when she’s not actively leading.  _ “I was reaching out to you regarding some gossip I heard recently, actually.” _

Qatya can’t help but laugh. “Military gossip always tends to be scarily accurate,” she says. “Sometimes it’s even more informed than the people it’s about.” There had been that whole rumor about Alek - well, Malak - suggesting that he was secretly in love with Revan, and there had been at least two variations on it suggesting that the two of them  _ were _ together. She can’t help wondering if they’ve sorted that out yet.

_ “Indeed.” _ Jenn sighs, reaches over and takes a sip from a glass, and now Qatya knows for certain she’s off duty - she’d never be so unprofessional as to drink while the bridge is hers.  _ “I heard a rumor you’re returning to the war. I’ve already confirmed the one that mentioned you being seen at the Jedi Temple. I have to ask - is it true?” _

Qatya sighs. It shouldn’t surprise her, she knows, that the news has already spread - those were Republic troopers she waved off waiting to escort her to the Temple, after all, and she was beloved by the army - but she’s only been at the Temple for a few days, and she hasn’t even spoken to anyone in the military. “It is,” she admits, rubs at her forehead a little. “The Council summoned me back to Coruscant and reinstated my position as a Jedi - as you might expect, they want me to monitor Revan.”

Jenn presses her lips together.  _ “I can’t say I’m surprised, and I’ll be grateful for the help. Revan has been- difficult lately, more so than usual. Her imprisonment changed her and not for the better.” _

There it is again, that mention of Revan being captured, and Qatya frowns. “Do you know anything about that?” she asks. “The Council barely mentioned it, but even from the reports she sent in it’s clear it affected her badly.”

_ “I don’t,” _ Jenn says, shaking her head.  _ “I’m sorry. She hasn’t spoken to anyone about it. You could try asking General Malak or Commander Shan - if anyone knows, it’ll be the two of them.” _

“Commander Shan?” Qatya leans back in her chair, picks up her cup and swirls the water around for a moment before taking a drink. “Another Jedi, I assume? I haven’t been keeping up on the army since I left.”

_ “Bastila Shan, a padawan who was with the squad who found Revan after her escape. The rumor mills say they’ve grown close, and Revan was clearly trying to groom the girl to replace you.” _

“A  _ padawan?” _ Qatya tightens her hands around her cup, forces herself to put it down and takes a deep breath. “As third-in-command? She should  _ know better.” _

_ “Yes, you would think that, wouldn’t you? Something shifted during her captivity, and the mindset she had that led to Malachor seems to be permanent.” _ Jenn looks tired, and Qatya thinks she understands why now.  _ “I hate to put this on you, but I hope you come back soon - Revan is hells-bent on this new war and with her own personal revenge at stake, I’m sure it’s going to be even bloodier than the last one.” _

“The last one was bad enough,” Qatya says, thinks of Lantillies, of Dxun, of Malachor. She can’t let tragedies like that happen again - she  _ has _ to find a way to win with less casualties. The Republic can’t sustain another war like that and beyond that, it’s just too great a cost.

_ “Then we understand each other.” _

“We always have.” She runs her hands over the surface of the table, feels the grains in the wood, smooth beneath her fingers. “Malak isn’t trying to talk her down?”

_ “He either can’t or doesn’t want to, from what I’ve seen,” _ Jenn says, shaking her head a little.  _ “I suspect it’s the latter, but you know them better than I do.” _

“I’m not so sure about that,” Qatya murmurs. “You’re the one who’s seen them since they were captured.” Force, if Revan really is at a point where she’s willing to repeat Malachor… it’s no wonder the Council brought her back. They may not like her, they may even blame her for following Revan’s orders, but they  _ need _ her.

_ “All due respect, General, but having seen them since they came back doesn’t mean I know them any better.” _ Jenn lets out a long sigh, rubs at her eyes.  _ “Do you know anything about this superweapon?” _

And that’s a good question. Qatya shakes her head. “I don’t, but the Jedi Archives might have something, I’ll see if I can look it up. I know the civilization that created it is so ancient it’s hardly in any records, but the Archives go back to the founding of the Republic, and even before. I’ll let you know if I find anything out.”

_ “Thank you,” _ Jenn says, and they exchange a few more pleasantries and stories before the admiral signs off, leaving Qatya to the nigh-impossible task of scouring the entire Jedi Archives for any mention of a thirty thousand-year-old empire.

Force, the things she does for her friends.

~

The  _ Defender _ is dark and quiet when Malak helps Revan out of the kolto tank, draining the clear liquid and helping her pull off the oxygen mask and step out, wrapping her in a towel. The sedative still drifts fuzzily through her veins, and she leans into his solid presence at her side as she crosses the room to sit down on the bunk.  _ Hey, _ she thinks blearily, and he chuckles.

“Give it a couple minutes, you’ll wake up,” he murmurs, brushes her damp hair back from her face. “How’re you feeling?”

_ Sleepy. _ Revan drops her head onto Malak’s shoulder and rubs at her eyes, and he snorts, sitting down next to her.  _ I hate coming out of kolto. _

_ It’ll wear off, _ he says, amusement coloring his mental voice, and she elbows him in the ribs.  _ See? You’re already feeling better. _

“I hate you.”

“Now you’re just being dramatic.” Malak wraps his arm around her and she nestles closer into his side. Even under sedation, she’d been able to faintly feel him as he paced the ship’s corridors and worried about her and Bastila, as he watched himself kill an enemy with nothing but the Force.  _ I haven’t seen Bastila since she left the medbay - I hope she’s alright. _

_ How would I know? _ Revan answers, though as the sedative continues to wear off a bit of concern filters through to her. Bastila had asked, but even so, Revan had shoved her entire life at the younger girl, and that’s so much to take in all at once. She needs to make sure Bastila is alright, but that can wait until the other Jedi is ready.  _ I’ve been in kolto. _

“I felt you in my head,” Malak informs her. “You could’ve been in hers too, for all I know.”

“I don’t think that’s how this works,” she says. “It’s such a weak connection.”

“That’s how ours started too.” He sighs, absently twisting one of her braids through his fingers (and she tilts her head more into the touch), and he seems too tired given everything that’s happened. What he did to rescue her - it’s haunting him, and she doesn’t know how to fix that.

_ You’re upset, _ she says softly, and he sighs again and leans his cheek on top of her head.  _ You’ve been off since you rescued me. _

There’s a long pause. She can almost feel him weighing her words, deciding whether or not to answer, to admit to what they both know - that what happened in the compound shook him. (This is why she should be the one who makes those decisions. She’s already losing herself piece-by-piece to the Dark, has been since Vitiate first laughed inside her mind, and it’ll be worth it as long as Malak doesn’t follow her down, as long as Vitiate dies to her saber blades, as long as the Republic is safe. She’s known that since she made a deal with the devil to keep Malak safe - there’s nothing she wouldn’t do for him.)

He shifts his head against hers, lets out another long breath, and she can feel something in him shift.  _ I’ve never killed like that before, _ he admits.  _ How do you do it? _

Revan is quiet for a minute. How can she explain the way it just-  _ happens, _ how in battle her anger and her fear are a raging storm, how using them has become as much instinct as anything else? It’s not the Jedi way, she knows that - has known that since she was a youngling in the creche - and yet she’s barely been a Jedi since Dxun (since before then, if she’s honest with herself; no Jedi would make the decisions she made, over and over again, choosing what to lose so she could win).

Still. She hadn’t started using the Force to kill until Vitiate sank his claws into her mind, until all she could feel was Darkness.

_ I would’ve killed him, _ she says finally, instead of answering the question.  _ I had my lightsabers, you didn’t have to do it. _

“He  _ attacked _ you, Revan,” Malak says, a flash of anger bursting into the Force around him. “You were unarmed.”  _ I’ve killed before, I don’t need you to do it for me. _

“I still would’ve done it,” she says, pushing away from him enough she can turn to look at him. “I’ve made my choices, Malak, and I- Let me do this. I’ve always been the one who gave the hard orders anyway.”

“I told you, I don’t need you to protect me,” he says, nearly snaps, and she swallows. “I don’t  _ want _ you to. I never asked you to sacrifice yourself for me.” He looks fierce, firm, and there’s something-  _ I never asked you to sacrifice anything at all. _

Revan stands on shaky legs, something surging through her she can’t name. “I’ve sacrificed a hell of a lot more than myself for you, Alek!” she says, her voice too loud in her own ears, and she takes a deep breath that does nothing to settle her. “I’d do it again, too, without hesitation, because  _ you’re the only Force-damned thing I refuse to lose.” _

Malak stops. Looks at her, frowning, something shifting in his eyes. “What do you mean, you  _ have sacrificed?” _ he asks quietly, and she feels a cold wave of shock douse all the anger. “What have you done that I don’t know about?”

“Nothing,” she says, nearly pleading, because oh, Force, if he finds out- Jenn hadn’t spoken to her outside of acknowledging her orders for  _ weeks _ after, even though they’d taken Clefar back from the Mandalorians eventually, even though they’d won the whole sector. Fett had escaped when Revan brought her entire fleet to bear on his trap, and he’d fortified himself on Clefar, exported who knows how much raw cortosis, and by the time she’d gotten the planet back it’d been ravaged, over half the civilian population dead. She’d been so terrified Cressa would hear her voice shake when she reported to him after, that he would see how guilty she was even behind the mask.

Pain crosses Malak’s face. “Don’t  _ lie _ to me,” he says, low. “Lie to the rest of the galaxy if you have to, but not to me.”

“I-” Revan’s voice is shaking and she looks away, closes her eyes tightly. She’d planned to take this secret to her grave.

“I deserve to know, Revan. Tell me.”

“Clefar,” she whispers, not opening her eyes. “I gave Clefar to Fett to save you.”

Malak doesn’t answer for a long time. Revan opens her eyes, finally, to see him just- just  _ staring _ at her, something twisting across his face, across the Force between them. She can see the realization in his eyes, can not-quite-feel him remembering how he’d been all but lost to the trap when her full fleet burst out of hyperspace and destroyed several Mandalorian ships at once. She’d given him the same excuse then that she’d given everyone else - that she didn’t have the manpower to take Clefar without Alek’s people, that she couldn’t afford to lose those ships, that Fett was too great a threat to ignore. He’d believed her, because she’d never lied to him before. Not like this.

“You abandoned an entire planet,” he says finally, and it isn’t a question. “Revan-”

“How am I supposed to live without you?” she asks, and her voice  _ aches. _

Without Malak, she’s lost. He’s always been her morality, her self-control, her stability; without him she would’ve been expelled from the Jedi years ago. She’s always struggled with her anger, and he’s always been at her side to calm her when everything gets to be too much and she wants to lash out from it all. If she lost him-

These days it’s so hard to live with herself, with everything she’s done in pursuit of victory. She’s made so many sacrifices over the last three years she barely knows how to think of the galaxy, of  _ life, _ as anything other than a game of dejarik. Malak helps that, gives her something - someone - to cling to who understands what she’s seen, what she’s done. She  _ needs _ him, needs the one person in the galaxy she can truly take the mask off around.

She’d destroy the galaxy for him. Even if that meant he’d never look at her again, at least he’d be  _ alive. _

“I need some space,” Malak says quietly. “I need to- think about this.” And she needs him, but his face is pale and pinched and he’s putting up light shields over the bond but she can tell he’s  _ upset. _

“Alright,” she murmurs, drags her hands over her face as he gets to his feet and starts for the door, carrying her heart with him. 

(He wouldn’t  _ leave, _ would he? Of all the things she’s done for him, this is- it’s the worst, she knows, the one that shatters the Jedi Code so heavily there’s nothing to piece back together, but they’d both broken the Code so many times during the war. They’d both done things they shouldn’t to save each other.

So he won’t leave. He  _ can’t, _ she doesn’t know what she’ll do without him.)

“For what it’s worth,” he says, pausing in the doorway, “I don’t know how I’d live without you either.”

And then he’s gone. And Revan is alone.

This isn't how it’s supposed to go. This isn’t how their arguments  _ work; _ they’ll usually be short and sharp and maybe even a little vicious, but they never last longer than a few hours, and then there are apologies and enough touch to remind themselves they’re both still here, still together. Neither of them can really stand to be alone for long periods of time, especially not after Vitiate, and there’s no one in the galaxy Revan trusts like she trusts Malak (and she knows the same is true for him), so of course they stay together.  _ Space _ is something they rarely need, at least from each other.

And it’s not like she hasn’t made sacrifices like that before. Clefar had been razed nearly to the ground, yes, but Malak had stood along silently while she gave the order to destroy Malachor, and  _ that _ is on such another level altogether. And she’d won the planet back, so really, how is it any different from bombarding Ixale or bombing Iziz or letting Cassus Fett take a planet so she could secure the sector?

But- there’s a reason she’d kept her decision so secret, a reason she’d lied to everyone about it, a reason Jenn, even as angry as she’d been, hadn’t said a word to the other officers or to the Chancellor. The troops’ morale wouldn’t have withstood the knowledge that their savior, their legend, their hero abandoned a planet to save one person. And she’d  _ known _ Malak wouldn’t like it, and maybe it’s selfish but she hadn’t wanted to fight over it then, and she wants even less to fight over it now.

As much as it aches, she’ll give him space. She can handle a little while without him if it means they don’t fight.

Can’t she?

Sleep is hard to come by that night, curled up on the spare bunk in the medbay with a blanket wrapped around her; in the days since Korriban she’d gotten used to Malak’s steady warmth and comforting presence next to her as she drifted off, and being without that aches in all the worst ways. She misses the security, the comfort, especially as she closes her eyes and the nightmares come for her with a vengeance. 

But she sleeps, and then she heats up rations and dresses in her heavy robes and gets to work finishing the repairs on the  _ Defender. _ By the time Bastila and Malak are awake and ready to start off again, she’s nearly finished, as much as she can be without shutting down the pulse that nullified all the ship’s systems.

They agree, quietly, to head off to the Rakata village Malak discovered, and Lehon is a beautiful planet but it’s hard to focus on anything other than the distance between her and Malak - both physically and mentally - and the way Bastila is still quiet and withdrawn. That gossamer-thin thread between them is still as clear and visible as it’d been the day before, and it’s twisting with Bastila’s emotions, with something she’s struggling to understand, and it’s all Revan can do not to push.

It’s just- she needs  _ someone _ around her.

(Only half the memories she’d pushed at Bastila had been deliberate; they’d turned into a whirlwind she couldn’t control after the first few, and she’s not entirely sure what the girl did and didn’t see, but she’s fairly certain Obliss and Clefar had been among them. Has Bastila realized yet what Revan did, how far she has gone and will go?

If that realization made  _ Malak _ pull away, how could Revan even dare to hope that Bastila will stay at all?)

The sun is high overhead when they reach the Rakata compound, and the difference between it and the one that Revan had found is immediately obvious. The compound isn’t guarded by warriors, but rather by sizzling beams of purple energy arcing between pylons in a familiar style. More ancient Rakata technology, and she trails her gloved fingers over one of the pylons as they follow a path to the compound door. Even without entirely reaching into the Force, she can  _ feel _ the age of this place like a heavy cloud around it, and yet the technology hasn’t faltered.

It’s amazing. If they can figure out how this works, how it’s built, the Republic could  _ use _ this against the Empire, against any other enemies they may find.

The main door to the compound slides open as Revan comes to a stop, and Malak steps up with a datapad in hand as two Rakata exit and come to stand before them. She reaches for her lightsabers almost on instinct - remembers chattering laughter and a dart in her neck - but Malak sends her a nudge past his shields and she grimaces and lets go of the hilts.

“Hello again,” Malak says with a surprising amount of respect, even giving a short Jedi half-bow, which the two Rakata return. “I brought my leader to meet you, like I said I would. We had an unfortunate interaction with the hostile tribe you warned me about or we would’ve returned sooner.”

The Rakata responds and reaches out for Malak’s datapad, and Revan frowns. “Wait,” she says, and he stops. “I can make this easier.”

She hadn’t thought of it before, when the Force was slipping between her fingers like sand and the Rakata warriors had been hostile and moving to attack before she could think, but now that she has the space- Revan reaches out into the Force, finds the edges of the Rakata’s mind, and presses her awareness in past rudimentary natural shields, seeking out his understanding of his own language. There’s a hiss of something shocked and concerned, and then the gibberish resolves into  _ clarity. _

_ “-what is this feeling? What are you doing to us?” _

“There,” she says, satisfied, and pulls back from the Rakata’s head, reaches across her bond with Malak and pushes the knowledge at him. “I can understand your language now.”

The Rakata seems almost shocked.  _ “How is this possible?” _

“I used the Force to take your knowledge from your head,” and she shrugs one shoulder. At her side, Bastila shifts, feels  _ uncomfortable, _ but- Revan doesn’t have time to spend weeks learning a new language when Vitiate is preparing for war. “My name is Revan. I’m a Jedi Knight and I represent the Galactic Republic.”

The Rakata bow, both of them.  _ “I am Councillor L’wah of the Elders, and this is Keeper Orsaa, our historian. Our tribe is descended from the priest-caste of the Infinite Empire, and we are charged with preserving the knowledge of our ancient technology and guarding the Temple of the Ancients. What business does your Republic have with Lehon?” _

“We’re seeking the Star Forge,” Revan starts, and then stops at the way both Rakata straighten, something flashing into the Force from them.

_ “The Star Forge is evil,” _ Keeper Orsaa says sharply, gesturing with one hand.  _ “It corrupts everything it touches, it destroyed our people, reduced us to primitives and warlords, to the tribes who squabble over bits of technology they can no longer understand. It is a dark thing, Revan, and should not be sought.” _

She pauses. “You know what it is, then?” She’s not worried about the darkness of it - the moment the  _ Vengeance _ had come into the system she’d felt its presence in the Force, that same dark-edged hardness the star maps had had - but if the Rakata truly believe the Star Forge is evil, it’s unlikely they’ll help her reach it. Unless- Well. That’s an idea.

_ What are you thinking? _ Malak asks silently, and the space between their minds vanishes abruptly now that they need to communicate. Even when they’re arguing, they’re still  _ one unit, _ and they’ll approach any potential problem the same way. She just hopes Bastila has the sense to stay quiet and let them handle this.

_ If it’s as bad as they say it is - offer to destroy it for them, _ she says in return.  _ Just don’t give them a timetable, and we can get rid of it once we’ve defeated Vitiate. _

He’s quiet for a minute, and she can tell he’s processing.  _ “In the simplest terms,” _ Orsaa says, unaware of their silent conversation,  _ “the Star Forge is creation.” _ How can creation be evil?  _ “But it is corrupted. It builds machines of war, starships and droids and weapons, by drawing on the power of our star. It has cast a shadow over our people for too many millennia, and we can never return to the civilized galaxy as long as it exists.” _

Malak makes a considering noise.  _ It could work, _ he tells her, and that’s all the approval she needs.

“What if, as a gesture of goodwill to you from the Republic,” Revan starts, “we destroyed the Star Forge for you? All we ask in return is that you allow us access to the pulse that caused our ship to crash, so we can leave the planet.”

Bastila makes a noise in her throat and Revan doesn’t look over at her, just reaches for the fledgling bond between them and pushes  _ trust me _ across as firmly as she can. The connection is too weak for them to be in each other’s heads constantly, like she and Malak are, but she thinks it’s enough for the message to get across. And the younger Jedi subsides, though there’s something uncertain flickering in her grey eyes.

_ “This would be- a grand gesture,” _ L’wah says,  _ “but how do we know you’ll keep your word? We have had no contact with your Republic before today.” _

“Yesterday, you told me of a compound of primitive warriors who were threatening your safety,” Malak says. “The entire tribe and their leader are dead.” His face is still and blank when he asks, “Does that satisfy you?”

L’wah and Orsaa look at each other for a moment before L’wah nods.  _ “It does,” _ he says.  _ “We will grant you access to our computer terminals, and in the morning, we will bring you to the Temple of Ancients. There is a ritual to lower the shield and allow you in, but our tradition states that one must enter the Temple alone.” _

“I respect your customs, but I need my people with me,” Revan says. “Malak will iron out the details with you. I’d like to see your computers.”

Orsaa has her follow him inside the compound, and she leaves Malak behind to negotiate with L’wah, looks around behind her mask as she follows the historian. The village has a similar layout to the one she saw yesterday, but it feels different. There’s so much more  _ history _ here, signs of a proper culture instead of just warlords and weapons, and bits of technology scattered around. The room Orsaa leads her into is large, with a terminal in it similar to the ones in the Dantooine ruins, and he bows a little and steps out of her way as they enter.

_ “All of our recorded information is here,” _ he says.  _ “You may study as long as you wish; it is rare we have others eager to learn our history. I will leave you to your privacy, but don’t hesitate to call on me if I can answer any questions.” _ And then he turns and leaves the room.

Revan crosses to the terminal and toggles it on, starts skimming through a list of information contained in the archives; there’s recordings about the fall of the Infinite Empire, about the Temple of the Ancients, about the Elders themselves, and she’s just settled in to read when there’s a quiet scuff of boots on the floor behind her.

“Hello, Bastila,” she says quietly, turns around to see the younger Jedi hovering in the door. Bastila looks uncertain, but there’s a resolve slipping into the Force around her as she takes a couple more steps into the room.

“I wanted to speak to you about your memories,” Bastila says, and Revan nods. It’s a conversation they need to have, and with the way Malak has pulled back since their argument, well- it’d be nice to have someone. “Especially the ones about… Master Vrook.”

Revan’s face twists a little at the name, and she has to fight the urge to tense, to snap. “Vrook is the least-deserving Jedi of the title I’ve ever met,” she says, as calmly as she can manage. “He’s spent my entire life doing nothing but lurking in the background, doing everything he can to get in my way, to turn the rest of the Council against me. The only reason he hasn’t had me expelled from the Order is because  _ that _ at least requires a trial and we haven’t had time for one yet.”

“That’s just it,” Bastila says. “I’ve spent my entire life on Dantooine, and- he can be stern, and sometimes cold, but I’ve never seen him like that before. He was always kind to me, at least until-” She stops, looks down, and Revan frowns.

“Until what?” she presses, because Vrook has always been horrible to her, she’s never expected anything different from him, but if he pretended to be a proper Jedi to other younglings and padawans only to turn on them - she won’t stand for that. Won’t allow it. Vrook will  _ not _ treat anyone else the way he treated her.

Bastila twists her fingers together. “There’s something I- should tell you,” she admits, lifts her eyes to look at Revan again, meeting her eyes through the mask. “You know that I’m a padawan. Master Vrook is my master. Or-  _ was _ my master, I suppose,” and something pained flashes through her eyes.

Vrook is Bastila’s master?

The flash of  _ anger _ that surges through Revan makes it hard to think. No wonder Bastila had been a shadow of herself when they’d gone before the Council, no wonder a quiet interest in Revan had been the most rebellion she could muster, no wonder she’s not prepared for war. If Vrook has hurt Bastila-

And then it registers. “What do you mean,  _ was?” _ Revan asks, voice strained from holding back her anger. “You haven’t been knighted.”

“You’ve said yourself - he has a low opinion of any Jedi who followed you to war,” Bastila says, quiet, shaky, and she’s so pale she looks like she’s about to collapse. “After I- spoke in your defense to the Council, I apparently became one of those Jedi,” and that doesn’t- Revan doesn’t understand. “I tried to speak to him after the meeting, but he informed me he had nothing to say to me, and that as far as he was concerned, I was no longer his padawan.”

“He  _ what?” _ Revan goes very, very still, hands clenching into fists at her side. Abandoning a padawan is one of the worst things any knight or master can do, nearly always results in expulsion unless it can be proven there was a necessary reason for it (which is rare, not even a fall to the Dark Side is generally considered necessary), and all Bastila did was stand up for Revan  _ once, _ and she hadn’t realized Vrook’s hatred of her ran so deep he’d  _ disown his own padawan _ in some sort of attempt to get to her. Vrook  _ left Bastila, _ was her teacher and her mentor for years, was  _ kind _ to her until the moment she looked at Revan. “I’m going to  _ kill him.” _

“He was well within his rights-”

“He was  _ not!” _ Revan snaps, crosses the space between them in two quick steps. “Even  _ Vandar _ would agree with me, Bastila. There’s  _ never _ a good reason to abandon someone you’re responsible for, especially when they look up to you and value you.” The  _ fury _ sparking across her bones and swirling through the Force around her echoes into her voice, compels her to reach up and tug her mask off so that Bastila can see the fierce determination in her eyes. “Vrook had no right to  _ abandon _ you, and he is never going to touch you again.”

Something in Bastila  _ crumples. _ “I can’t believe he treated you the way he did,” she says, her voice trembling. “He was strict but never harsh with me, but your memories- You were just a child and he had such a  _ vendetta _ against you, and because of that he- he-” Her voice breaks, for a moment, and she sounds so  _ young _ when she says, “he left me.”

Revan hooks her mask to her belt, then reaches out and pulls Bastila against her chest. “You don’t need him,” she says softly, and the younger Jedi  _ melts _ into her arms, drops her head to press her face into Revan’s shoulder. “You have Malak and I now, and I  _ promise _ you, Bastila, we’ll never leave you. And Vrook will pay for what he did.” She will make certain of that.

It’s not enough that Vrook had to ruin  _ her _ childhood, had to ruin Alek’s. He just  _ had _ to take a padawan (and there is no Jedi  _ less _ suited for teaching than Vrook, in her opinion), one young and with a powerful natural talent, just had to convince her to trust him and treat her kindly - or as kindly as an arrogant, angry old hypocrite can - only to leave her the moment she made a decision he didn’t like. No Jedi should  _ ever _ take a padawan unless they’re prepared to accept that said padawan will make choices they don’t agree with. Vrook is on the High Council, he should  _ know better! _

Vrook has had power for too long. Once Vitiate is dealt with, once the Republic is safe, Revan will ensure he never hurts another padawan again. She will make him  _ bleed _ for everything he’s done to her and to Malak and to Bastila.

Revan has hated Vrook since she was a child. Now, she will see him  _ dead. _

“I’ve always struggled too much with my emotions,” Bastila says, muffled, “and he- he warned me that my temper would lead me to the Dark, that if I didn’t learn to control myself I would fall. He said once that I reminded him of another knight he never had the chance to save from that fate, because by the time he met them they were too far gone, and I always thought-” Bastila pulls her head back, meets Revan’s gaze, and there’s tears on her cheeks and Revan aches and  _ burns. _ “After you vanished, I realized he meant  _ you, _ but seeing your memories - he knew you when you were a  _ child _ and he already believed you to be past saving. And I- I  _ trusted _ him.”

Revan brings one hand up to cup Bastila’s cheek gently, rubs her thumb under the girl’s eye and wipes away some of the tears. “It’s going to be alright,” she promises. “You deserved so much better than him, Bastila, and nothing he said was true. Your emotions - even your temper - they’re  _ part of you, _ and there’s nothing wrong with who you are.” Of  _ course _ Vrook would try to make Bastila afraid of her own emotions, it’s likely what he would’ve done to Revan if he hadn’t already been so convinced of her darkness. “Having a temper doesn’t make you  _ Dark.” _

For a moment, Bastila just stares at her, and there’s something in her eyes, something surging across the Force between them- “No one’s ever said that to me before,” she murmurs, and then abruptly she’s pushing forward, one hand curling around Revan’s breastplate, the other slipping into Revan’s hood to twist into her braids, and then Bastila is  _ kissing her. _ Revan makes a noise as Bastila’s hand tightens on her hair - Force damn it, if she finds out Malak told Bastila about her weakness she’s going to kill him - and presses closer, closing her eyes.

She still doesn’t know much about kissing, but this- it’s  _ good. _ There’s a kind of heat behind it, a passion that reminds her of the battlefield, and she thinks she could get used to this.

And then Bastila pulls back - though she doesn’t let go of Revan, stays hovering close - her cheeks stained red. “I shouldn’t have done that,” the younger Jedi manages, not quite meeting Revan’s eyes. “Malak-”

“Malak doesn’t mind,” Revan says, and leans forward to kiss her again.


End file.
